


Darkness sings a violent song (yet our hope can still rise up)

by LightbringerSunlance



Series: Ashes of Victory [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2020-12-14 08:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21012932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightbringerSunlance/pseuds/LightbringerSunlance
Summary: Everyone knows of the Commander - the Dragon Slayer, the God Killer -but do they know where she started? Do they know of the horrors she faced before Zhaitan and Mordremoth became her focus, of the lives she lost along the way?From the Ministry, to the Priory, to the Pact - this is the Commander's journey.





	1. How far you’ve come

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly self-indulgent fic? Starring my commander Isaye Caldoran and following her on her journey from being nothing to becoming a legend.
> 
> Updates every Saturday.

_One_, a whisper notes at the back of your mind. A tally you unconsciously form as the body falls, blood gushing out of the wound on his chest. Ink on a page finalising his fate.

Your eyes, piercing blue under the moonlight, watch him cautiously but still unfocused, head spinning. A hand on your shoulder has you gasping, snapping you back to attention. Your superior nods, his gaze shifting from you to the dying man, narrowed and wary. He says something, accent thick with Krytan heritage, and you murmur a reply.

The two of you leave, but only one of you looks back.

And you’re left wondering if it gets better.

* * *

_Seven_, you remind yourself as steel cuts through flesh. This dance is not new to you now and yet you can’t suppress the disgust. Disgust at yourself for following the orders of madmen, hell bent on chasing your Queen off the throne. Disgust at your superiors for distributing warrants for innocent men and women.

Alive, they say, ready for a fair trial. What they really mean is dead. What they really want is for you to wipe away the evidence, starting with the blood of innocent citizens and ending when the ministers are satisfied with your performance.

The red of your armour is appropriate, it hides the colour of blood to those who would seek your protection. To you it is a reminder of the death you’ve wrought: the bandit in the alley, the unarmed man at the market, the thief at Manor Hill, the servants who just happened to work for the wrong minister.

You may not have known their names, but their faces stain your memory. And the woman lying at your feet, un-moving, will torment you all the same.

* * *

“Congratulations, Caldoran. You’re being promoted to Captain,” Commander Serentine says sternly, never glancing up from the papers in front of her.

“Thank you, Ma’am. It’s an honour,” you reply. You stand attentive, back straight, hands clasped at the base of your spine, eyes ahead and watching the Commander sift through paperwork. Silence passes awkwardly and your mind wanders.  
How many people did it take to get here? How many lives suffered at your hands? The faces flash before you, a haunting illusion painted scarlet with a brush of steel. 59.

“–what this position means?”

You blink twice, brow furrowed. Commander Serentine sighs, and instantly repeats the question without further prompt.

“You understand what this position means, yes? Not just for you, but for the Guard as a whole.”

“I—of course, Commander. As a Captain of the Ministry Guard, it is my duty to discipline those under my leadership appropriately, as well as to protect the more… sensitive assets of the Ministers.” Your eyes meet hers, a pair of unflinching brown eyes, narrowed but glistening with a hint of respect.

“Exactly, _Captain_. Such assets must be guarded well. I’m sure you’ve heard what happened to the last guard in your position.” She watches you intently, surely waiting for your reaction, gauging your worth.

You gaze right back, determination set in your features as you offer her a coy smile.

“Captain Reyes took an unfortunate leave from the Ministry Guard after a fatal run in with some wild bandits.” Surprisingly the lie seeps past your lips with ease. It’s what you’ve told the civilians in Divinity’s Reach and the Captain’s immediate family. But both people in this room know the truth. Captain Reyes tried to leak information about a dirty Minister to the Shining Blades, and that led him to an early grave.

“And do you believe your skill set will allow you to deal with these bandits more professionally?”

_Bandits_, you laugh inwardly. _Why don’t you ask me the real questions?_

“Are you asking if I’ll fail as he did, Commander? Are you worried that you’re promoting soldiers who lack discretion?”

As her eyes narrow, you’re entirely aware of the weapons you left at the door. There’s no shield for you to hide behind here, and no room for your challenging nature. Commander Serentine seems to accept your questions, though irritation seeps into her voice.

“Not one for tip-toeing around a subject, are you Isaye Caldoran? I’d be careful _Captain_. With an attitude like that, you might find yourself with a shortage of allies.”

“My attitude got me this far. A soldier with skills of my calibre—”

“Is as good as dead, if said soldier is incapable of following orders.”

_59_, you repeat over and over. _59 people died for you to get here._

Heart hammering, like thunder from a storm, the sound drumming in your ears. Whatever you say here, whatever choice you make, will change everything you are. You could walk away from the guard. What secrets do you know that would be worth killing over? Who would believe you? You’d be safe if you backed out now.

But something urges you onward and the pause in your conversation feels like a chasm.

A beat later, you feel sick at the answer you give, at the weight of your armour pulling you down. _No shield to hide behind now._

“Then you have nothing to fear, Commander Serentine. Discretion is one of the many skills I have to offer the Ministry.”

* * *

You’re taking an afternoon stroll, enjoying the peace and quiet that often eludes you. The gardens of the upper city are rarely bustling with people; only those important enough to visit Queen Jennah or a Minister hang around since both the Shining Blade and the Ministry Guard keep watch for unwelcome visitors.

You’re rounding a perfectly trimmed bush somewhere in the middle of the gardens when the shouting starts. It’s coming from behind you, and it’s not particularly hysterical, but it’s enough to make you pause.

A few seconds later, you manage to make out a few faint words over the greenery. ‘Captain’ is the one that catches your attention, so you resign yourself to waiting for whoever is calling, leaning idly against the closest wall. Even if you’re not the captain that they’re looking for, you can at least point them in the right direction.

“Captain Caldoran?” you’re asked a few minutes later by a feminine voice. The guard is bent over, huffing and sweating in the heat. Long hair pokes out from under a silvery helmet, slightly damp at the ends. If you weren’t raised a commoner, you might have grimaced with disgust, but you remain true to your roots and give the poor guard a look of sympathy.

“Remove your helmet, Soldier. The weather’s far too muggy for it.” You stay relaxing on the wall, waiting patiently as the Guard removes her helmet and tucks it awkwardly over her arm, all the while expressing her gratitude to you.

“Captain, the requested reports from Hansley and Thornton arrived earlier this morning,” she says.

_That’s good news_, you think dryly. Those reports were supposed to be here weeks ago, but a mishap with the messenger out in Queensdale caused a few bothersome delays. You hold out your hand, waiting for the soldier to place a pile of files in it, but after a few seconds of silence there is still an absence of weight on your palm.

“And the reports are _where_?” You ask. Your irritation steadily grows with every passing second. Maybe it’s the sweltering heat, or maybe it’s that fact that your day has been interrupted, but either way your patience is beginning to wear thin, and you have to try your best not to take it out on the Ministry Guard before you.

“I—Um…”

“You don’t have them on your person, do you?”

Her eyes dart back and forth between your own narrowed orbs and the floor.

“I may have left them on your desk, Ma’am.”

You sigh, resigning yourself to the knowledge that your walk has been ruined and peaceful break has been shattered, and start to make your way back to the Ministry’s quarters. The soldier follows after a moment of hesitation, wary to stay one step behind you and to your left out of respect. Such actions are drilled into the Guards early on in their training, and you idly remember the way that you used to fall into step behind your captain without a word being uttered.

Times like that, where following in silence was your entire world, were much easier.

Fifteen minutes later and you’re sat at your desk, flicking through pages of lazily scribbled writing that is barely legible. The soldier from earlier stands to attention at the door, fidgeting with her hands and bouncing lightly from one foot to another. You asked her to stay, just in case you needed something else once you’d scanned the reports.

The first is Hansley’s. From what you’ve gathered, troops successfully managed to defend Beetletun from a few waves of overly blood thirsty centaurs. Only two casualties, no deaths. It’s enough to make you smile. With reports like this, Hansley is likely to see a promotion in the near future.

It’s the next report you dread. You know exactly what you sent Thornton to do. _Murder. Slaughter_. Your eyes skim the report, sullen and squinted. The entire Lancaster family dead, distant relatives included, which adds up to at least twenty three. Seven of them were children, no older than ten years.

You close the report, pages slapping against each other as you let them drop. The soldier at the door winces.

“What’s your name?” you ask, conversing in an attempt to distract yourself. Because those were your orders. Those deaths are still hanging over your shoulders, dragging you further and further into your own twisted version of the Underworld. You don’t look up, don’t want her to see the look in your eyes. The look of a killer who’s grown far to use to the blood stains and dying screams. A killer who remembers a number – _102 now_ – instead of names or faces.

“It’s Nasira, Ma’am,” she replies, surprise evident in the heightened pitch of her voice.

“Nasira. Orrian, right?”

“Yeah. My—my father’s side is Orrian. They moved out a few years before Orr sunk, apparently. Stowed away on a ship to Lion’s Arch.”

“Must have some interesting stories,” you mutter. It comes as a surprise when she replies; you honestly thought she hadn’t heard.

“Don’t we all? Isaye’s a Canthan name. Surely your stories are more exciting than mine.”

You finally look up from the papers, 102 falling to the back of your mind, buried under polite conversation. For the first time in months you’ve found a ministry guard that you actually like.

The grin crosses your face before you can stop yourself, and after a few more pleasant conversations, Nasira finds herself transferred to your watch.

* * *

Late nights in your office are spent combing through reports with a glass Juniberry Gin to your left, ice clinking against the glass as you lift it to your lips and take a sip.

Your ‘death count’ stands at 104. Only two people have died in three months of work. That’s a record on your part, but your errands still take their toll. Deaths don’t mean innocents are okay. You’ve sent guards to raid houses, imprison, and torture innocent civilians. By Grenth, you even managed to attract the attention of the Countess.

Four nights ago she came to visit, leaving a couple of Shining Blade lackeys at the door. It wasn’t as late as this, but it was late enough for you to take extra precautions.

_\-------_

_“You don’t need to be so wary, my dear. I’m not here to pick a fight.”_

_“Then why are you here, Countess? I’m rather busy, and time seems to be escaping me these days.”_

_“Perhaps I can help.”_

_You laugh, laced with a little bark._

_“Aren’t reports beneath you?”_

_“As a leader, Captain Caldoran, surely you understand that reports are a vital means of communication between the higher ups and their subordinates. But I digress, I have no interest in your reports, or the activities of your charges.”_

_You pause your writing mid-sentence, ink pooling around the point of your pen. Anise smiles at you, genuine, as she gracefully takes the seat opposite you._

_“You’re… not?”_

_“No. And trust me, the Blades know exactly what you’ve been doing here at the Ministry, but you’ve proven difficult to catch in the act.”_

_Your throat feels dry. All of these reports, all of that sensitive information in front of her. She could take one. You’d be no match for her, not in a one on one fight. Besides, she has back up. She could catch you right here and now and you’d be dead by morning. So why? What is she here for?_

_Almost as if you’d voice your thoughts, she answers the questions weighing heavily on your mind._

_“Your skills are why I’m here, Isaye. Not just your natural talents in deception, but your fighting prowess as well. You understand, don’t you?”_

_“You’re offering me a way out.”_

_“Exactly. With the Blades, I’ll make sure that no one in the Ministry can touch you. Your heart is too good for this, Isaye. I can see it in your eyes now, and I’ve heard it from my people inside the Ministry. This burden is destroying you from the inside, and it’s only a matter of time before it gets you killed. Whether it’s by the drink, or by their swords.”_

_She gestures to the empty gin bottle, discarded and smashed against a nearby wall. 102, you think. That could end. But you have family. You know what the Ministry does to traitors, to those closest. Anise can offer you protection, but she can’t keep your family safe._

_“I’m sorry, Countess. I can’t. Now I’m going to ask you to leave, and I’ll only say it once.”_

_She stands, smile gone, replaced with frowns and furrowed brows. But she doesn’t voice her displeasure. She just nods, turns on her heel, and whispers you a good night as she leaves._

* * *

A few days after your encounter with Countess Anise, Nasira enters your office cautiously, followed by Commander Serentine and a handful of Ministry Guards.

“Captain, Commander Serentine is here to discuss the details of one of your more recent visitors,” she says, voice wavering by the end. You glance up from your work, eyes meeting Nasira’s with reassurance.

“Thank you, Nasira. You may leave.” Out of respect, she bows to you, then the Commander, before exiting. The other Ministry Guards remain alert.

Your gaze falls to the Commander, hooded but blazing. A hand lingers on the hilt of your sword, propped up against the desk in its leather sheath.

“Good morning, Captain Caldoran,” Commander Serentine greets with a half-hearted smile. You merely nod in return. “Your aversion to conversation is rather irritating, Captain. Have I been working you too hard these past few weeks?”

“Not at all, Commander. But you’re not here to talk about workloads. So how about we skip the pleasantries?” Her smile flashes into a toothy grin, and for the first time you even hear the stoic Commander chuckle. Her entourage of guards shuffles nervously behind her.

“Of course. Straight to the point, as always. I’m here regarding Countess Anise’s recent visit to your offices.”

“You think I’m spying for the Shining Blade.” She sits down in the chair opposite, far less gracefully than Anise had all those days ago. This meeting is more hostile than the last and you wonder if the Commander is out for blood.

“The Ministers are worried. A spy amongst our ranks, especially one so high up the food chain, could spell disaster for some of their more _delicate_ activities.”

“Honestly, Commander, do you think I would sell myself out just to spite a few ministers, most of whom I’ve never met? I’m wounded.” You grab a couple of glasses; one left over from last night’s late hours and another fresh glass that Nasira bought you this morning. The guards watch your every move, hands plastered to the hilts and grips of their various weapons. Commander Serentine watches on with disinterest. “Wine or gin?” you ask.

“Wine,” she replies. You stand instantly, moving to the locked cabinet in the corner of the room. A few seconds later, you return to your seat with a bottle of Elonian wine in your hand.

“My treat,” you say with a wink, opening up the bottle and pouring it out into the two glasses. You take the used one and offer the clean glass to Serentine.

“I mean no offense, Captain,” she continues after a sip of wine. “I am merely protecting the interests of the Ministry.”

“Then the Ministry has nothing to fear. I told Countess Anise nothing, and she left empty handed.”

“Good. But why did she visit in the first place?”

You pause mid drink, weighing your options. You could lie, but that could lead to trouble and mistrust in the future, or you could tell the truth and risk your life in the here and now. To be honest, you’ve always been a bit of a gambler.

“She wanted me to join the Shining Blade.” At that, Serentine cocks an eyebrow, lips purse over the rim of the glass, eyes narrowed just a fraction. You swallow your fear with a gulp of Elonian wine and continue. “She threatened me, said she knew about my roles in certain _delicate activities_. She tried to force my hand in an effort to gain information.”

“You’re telling me she offered you a deal, and you didn’t take it. That’s what you want me to believe?”

You nod at her reply. She downs the wine, placing the cup on the table with a thud. You want to wince, but you force yourself not to.

“It’s the truth. And I fear the wrath of the Ministry far more than I fear her threats.”

The guards shift, and you hear the distinct ‘ka-chink’ of someone partially drawing their sword. Another raises their hand, flames dancing eagerly at the tips of their fingers, but Serentine is quick to berate them.

“Enough!” She shouts, and the guards back off out of fear. Apparently, the warrior has a reputation of her own. She turns to you, eyes dark yet brimming with something you can’t quite place. “I’m proud of you, Captain. You’ve made the right choice.

“There never was a choice,” you say bitterly in reply. The Commander turns and leaves, guards following a step behind, some of them glaring at you as they go. “The Ministry never gave me one,” you whisper to an empty room.

_105_, you think cynically.


	2. The Conductor of my Own Tragedy

There’s alcohol on your breath and fire in your heart, but you’re not in the office where glasses are provided free of charge so you ignore the urge to fling your glass at the nearest wall. Tonight, you find yourself at The Dead End Bar with a few of your friends from the Ministry. Well, if you can even call them that.

It’s your fourth (fifth?) drink and you’re starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. The apple cider they serve is strong – if you hadn’t figured that out after your first drink, then looking around at the other Guards would inform you now. It’s bitter on your tongue – you’re used to sweeter wines and sharper spirits – but you’re hardly complaining.

Nasira joins you at the bar, asking for another water. You send her a sideways glance, eyebrows raised questioningly, and she smiles back. “My grandparents are visiting, and if I go back drunk, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and you continue the conversation whilst signalling to the bartender to fetch another cider.

“Not even one drink?” you ask, gesturing over the bar.

She follows the bartender with a steady gaze, glancing back at you briefly with mock annoyance.

“Fine, but only because you’re buying.”

The two of you laugh, and by the end of the night you’ve snuck away from the bar, hand in hand and giggling about nothing. You end up back at your own house, tangled in bed sheets and each others bodies, breathing heavy.

Come morning, the bite marks on your neck are the only visible evidence that Nasira stayed the night, because when you wake you find yourself alone in an empty house.

* * *

Your trysts with Nasira continue for a month before anyone catches on. It starts out with chuckling and whispered congratulations to Nasira, but your glares calm the fires before it turns worse. Most of them are actually supportive, and those that keep your private meetings secret have actually become close friends.

Michael, for example, lets the two of you know that Commander Serentine is on her way to your office a good five minutes before she arrives. He laughs at your panic (Nasira lies half naked beneath you, important documents scattered along the floor as you occupy the desk), but leaves without another word to allow the two of you time to compose yourselves. Nasira leaves just as Serentine enters, winking as she passes to the guard outside the door.

You shuffle some papers before placing them on the desk, greeting Serentine.

“Should I be worried Commander? You seem to be here more often these days.”

“Merely keeping watch over those under my command. Wouldn’t want anything to happen that could make me look bad,” she replies. The Commander doesn’t bother to take a seat, suggesting your meeting will be brief. She’s also missing her usual entourage, which is strange.

“Understandable,” you say. You go to offer her a drink, but she waves her hand to stop you. “Something wrong?”

“We’ve had word that some guards under your command have past ties with members of the Shining Blade. Such rumours are bad for business.”

“Which guards?” you ask curiously. Serentine shifts to the side, glances at the door, analysing every little detail to be precautionary. Clearly, the situation is serious.

“Michael Vain, Alicia Santos, and…” she trails off, glancing at the door once more. It’s not like the Commander to be at a loss for words. And then you realise why, because how well can you keep anything secret from the Ministry?

“Nasira…” you say, barely an audible whisper. Serentine looks at you sympathetically, and you almost laugh at such a cruel joke. “That’s impossible.”

“I know that she and you are close. It’s why I came here first, out of respect for _you_ Captain.”

“_Respect?_ After everything you’ve said? Are you sure you’re not here to gauge my reaction, see the hurt and betrayal in my eyes first hand?”

“Enough, Captain. Remember where you stand here.”

You draw your blade, far faster than she draws her mace, and the tip lies still at the base of her throat, resting a good centimetre from the top of her carapace. It’s been too long since you’ve drawn your _Shadow_ _Heart,_ but it comes as easy to you as breathing. An extension of your own arm, levelled and brimming with dancing blue flames.

“Easy, Captain,” Serentine says. Her voice wavers just enough for you to know the threat has been received, and she raises her hands in mock surrender. “I meant what I said. I came here out of respect. You are the best I’ve seen in a long time, after all.”

Your eyes narrow, and your sword arm doesn’t move.

“Say I believe you, what do you still have left to say?”

“That she has yet to be found _guilty_.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Commander. Past ties are enough for the Ministry to slaughter families. To the Ministers, to the Guard, she’s already dead.”

“But not to _me_. Or you, for that matter. Your skills and rank put you in a unique position. You can _postpone_ her death, at least until you find evidence to prove her innocent.”

“Why give me this chance?”

Serentine looks at you, really looks at you, and you see an emotion flash across her face that you doubted she could even feel. Pain.

“Why? Because the same chance was never given to me.”

She leaves after that, ignoring the guards at the door, only glancing back when Nasira takes her place in the room. You catch Serentine’s gaze and wonder, how far did her death count get before she became so cold? Who did she lose?

You shake the thought away, and Nasira looks at you with concern. You smile at her, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Guards come to arrest Michael and Alicia later that afternoon, leaving a note hammered to your door.

_3 days_, it reads, and instantly you go to the archives in search of evidence. You even take to following Nasira home under the pretence of sex, because it’s easier to keep an eye on her that way.

_3 days,_ you think with panic and frustration, counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds, until finally you think you have something. One night Nasira sneaks out the house, and you follow her, desperate for your evidence.

Evidence is what you get, but it’s not the kind you wanted.

* * *

_Shadow Heart_ feels heavy in your hand. It’s stained with blood (again) and currently protruding through a woman’s chest. _Her_ chest. _Nasira._

You followed her and she attacked you. You tried to explain, you were _trying to help_, but she told you everything. She told you about how she’d been stealing reports and making copies, how Anise came to threaten her with _treason_ and _death_, and she’d caved.

She didn’t want to die. So instead she had to fight, had to come at you with tears in her eyes and daggers in her hands.

She was quick, almost too quick, but you have years of experience and training over her speed.

Self-defence doesn’t seem right. You try to justify your actions with those very words but find yourself failing because _she’s dead damn it, she’s dead_ and it’s all your fault. Anise finds you, sword cast aside, blood covering your clothes as you hold Nasira’s lifeless body close. You’re not crying, no tears fall. They’ve long since dried up. Your eyes are red from shear grief.

“Captain,” Anise calls warily. She steps closer, glancing down at you, seeking your approval to keep going. You look up, but two seconds staring into her eyes is more than you can take, and you avert your gaze once more.

“Isaye…” She says, creeping closer, crouching at your side once she reaches you. Blood soaks into the fabric at the bottom of her dress, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s too focused on you and the body you clutch so desperately.

“I killed her,” you mumble, disbelieving. Anise places a hand gently on your shoulder and you flinch. You drop the body, guilt rising, and roll towards your sword. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and through all your grief you find the will to fight.

Anise throws out and arm, and you brace yourself for magic. Except it’s not what you expected. You’re not thrown back, overpowered, or slowed. You feel calmer.

Despite everything, you feel as though a weight is being lifted.

“It won’t last,” Anise says in response to your confusion. “I can’t make it last, and I can’t make it disappear.”

“I killed her,” you repeat weakly.

“Yes, in self-defence. Both of you believed you would die tonight. You cannot blame yourself for instinct taking over.”

“Why not? _My instinct_ got her killed. If I’d just ignored it, talked her down, we could have both lived.”

“Saying things like that will only make the guilt worse, my dear.”

“Things can’t get worse, Anise.” You laugh, because this joke is sick and you want it to be over. “I can’t go back to the Ministry like this. I can’t be called a _hero_ by obnoxious Ministers and deplorable Guard. Not for this. And when I run, they’ll kill my family.”

“We could protect them, Isaye. The Shining Blade --”

“What can you do!” you shout. Anise doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. She just watches, face unreadable.

“Nasira is dead! My family is as good as dead! What do I have left to live for?”

You fall back, hit the wall, and steady yourself against it because your legs feel so weak right now. When they give out, you slide down against the brick, thin shirt tearing due to friction. You look so defeated, slouched against the wall, eyes empty and staring at the woman you loved, the woman you_ killed_, before you glance at Anise.

“Go ahead,” you whisper with finality. “Finish it. Call me traitor and end this.”

“No.”


	3. Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaye Caldoran leaves Divinity's Reach - and her past - behind.

_ “A few of my guard will accompany us to the Asura Gate. Once you’re in Lion’s Arch, a representative from the Durmand Priory will escort you the rest of the way.” _

_ “Thank you, for everything.” _

_ “Don’t thank me yet. Are you sure about this Isaye? You could stay with us, with the Shining Blade; there’s still time--” _

_ “No. No more lies or secrets Anise. And no more Divinity’s Reach. Staying will ruin me.” _

_ “Fair enough, my dear. May the Six watch over you.” _

* * *

The Magisters eye you cautiously as you pass, but no one talks to you. Not even your guide – an asura with narrowed eyes and an aura of superiority. He only spoke one sentence to you, and that was way back when you first reached Lion’s Arch. Since then, you’ve had seven days of awkward silence, with short stints of fighting minotaurs and bandits.

You’re not sure how highly ranked this asura is, but the people around seem to respect him – the averted eyes and uniform bows give that away. Hell, even when you’d caught glances of the Ministry on your tail, they’d stayed away once they spotted the asura at your side.

You never really paid that much attention to the Orders back in Divinity’s Reach. They weren’t a threat to the Ministry, so you didn’t  _ need _ to know.

You almost topple over the asura, missing his sharp halt in your moment of contemplation. The room you’re in now is huge, walls reaching so far up into the mountain that you can barely see the ceiling. The stone structure is circular, with doors leading further down into the mountain – deeper into the Priory itself – darted around the edges of the room. But what catches your eye is the column in the dead centre. Stone tablets, hundreds of them, float around a shimmering pillar of light, each inscription glowing faintly as they rotate.

The asura coughs, and you’re broken out of your trance.

“Shall we?” He asks, gesturing to one of the doorways leading down with a slight smile on his face. It’s the first time you’ve seen anything other than annoyance cross is features. 

You nod, trailing behind him once he starts walking again, glancing back at the pillar of tablets one last time. For a brief moment, your death count, all 178 faces, are forgotten amongst the prospect of a second chance. 

* * *

Steward Gixx - you found out his name eventually - oversees your brief period of training. You can see why the Ministry held off on their attacks by the end of the two weeks. As much as he loves books and desk work, he’s no stranger to battle, and his offensive skills make him a force to be reckoned with.  _ No wonder he’s head of the Priory. _

It still confuses you as to why he escorted you to the Priory personally, but you’re not really one to complain. Maybe he owed Anise a favour? Or maybe he would rather analyse a new recruit’s skills ahead of time. 

Either way, you’re here now, decked out in heavy Priory gear, adorning a new, unfamiliar long sword that sits heavily at your side, a matching shield slung over your shoulder and protecting your back. You miss the feel of Shadow Heart resting at your hip, but after everything that happened, you needed a well-deserved change.

Under the shield but above your armour is a cloak, clasped at the neck and weighed down with the furs of snow leopards and wolves. You grasp the edges tightly, wrapping the fabric around you, still not used to the harsh winds and freezing temperatures of the Shiverpeaks. The halls act similar to a wind tunnel, which doesn’t help your case. Sometimes you wish you were back in the Krytan sun, but such thoughts are quickly pushed to the back of your mind.

You hastily make your way to the archives, aware that Gixx will berate you if you’re even a second late. 

He was satisfied with your training and decided you were ready for field work, so he arranged a meeting with a Magister. You’ll tail them for a few months - or  _ years _ , you hear the Steward’s voice echo in your head - until said Magister decides you’re ready for more focused research.

It’s not what you’re used to – tomb raiding and studying ruins or temples is a large step away from  _ treason _ and  _ espionage _ , but you’re adjusting.

Not that you’d ever want to go back to that life.

You shake the thoughts away and bite back the tears, because you can’t get lost in the past, not again, not here. You’ll always remember what you did - you could never really forget - but you  _ have to move on _ . 

Entering the archives with some small form of resolve, you notice Steward Gixx pacing impatiently. You check the time - you’re not late - so you’re curious as to why the asura seems so irritated. 

“Sir…?” You ask slowly, not sure of your own voice.

He stops, turns to you instantly with a look of surprise before he catches himself, and the frown is back on his face. 

“Sir,” he mimics, almost childlike, and begins waving his hands around. “If only she were more like you, Novice! She’d be on time; by the alchemy she’d even be at the Priory when she’s asked!”

You watch him go, ranting on about whoever this ‘she’ is. Your appointed Magister, probably. Two minutes later and you dejectedly sigh, fold your arms, and lean against the nearest wall.  _ He’s making up for all that time you spent not talking on the way here _ , you think, almost laughing aloud. 

“Ugh. The nerve of her,” he finishes eventually, chest heaving.

“Who exactly are you talking about, Steward?” You ask.

“Magister Sieran. Such a creative mind, but so easily distracted. She was supposed to be back here days ago, but took a detour to Molent Summit.”

A detour is an understatement, at least to you. From what you’ve seen of the Priory’s maps, Molent Summit is a cave to the east of Lornar’s Pass, occupied by a small army of dredge. To be that far east, either she got lost or was coming from a more eastern part of the Shiverpeaks. 

“She even took the time to write me a letter.  _ ‘Dear Steward Gixx, I recently discovered that Molent Summit may be home to a Dwarven tomb. Exciting, isn’t it? My arrival at the Priory may be slightly delayed, but I assure you, there’s no need to send a team after me’. _ She’s always doing this. I don’t know why I bother with the bookah sometimes.”

You ignore the ‘bookah’ part – after more than your fair share of name calling, you understand that this is the least offensive – and take a second to digest the rest of the information.

“What are you going to do then? If she’s not here, will I be appointed a new Magister to shadow?”

“No, no, no. You’ll be placed on the expedition team I’m sending to Molent Summit. It’ll be small, only five or six more capable bodies, and the journey may take up to a week, but I have asked Sieran to hold off at least until the expedition team arrives. Whether or not that will happen, we’ll have to see.”

“And you couldn’t have told me this sooner?”

“I did, didn’t I? Isn’t that why you’re packed and ready to travel?”

You glance at the bag hanging at your side, something you slung idly over your shoulder earlier that morning. 

“I presumed so many supplies were required because I was going out into the field with this Magister Sieran.”

“Well, then your presumption was wrong. The expedition team will be waiting for you at the entrance. Do try not to get killed, Novice.”

You sigh, deep and exasperated, before trudging up the stairs, out of the archives, and towards the entrance.  _ Show time. _

* * *

It takes you five days to reach Molent Summit, practically unhindered, bar a few wild wolves you managed to keep at bay, and by that time you’ve gotten to know the other members of your expedition team. 

There’s Magister Bjarke, a deceptively peaceful norn that towers over every member in your party. He’s muscular and covered in intricate, tribal tattoos that form an inky mixture of dark reds and deep greens. Shamanistic pants fall to his ankles, the tips of boots poking out from underneath the robe. His torso is bare, save for a cloth cloak slung idly over his shoulder. His elementals staff, still brimming with flames, is leant against a nearby boulder.

Explorer Zakk – an asura who insists he’s taller than his race’s average height – is probably the most obnoxious asura you’ve ever met. The mesmer is always flaunting his talents and achievements, even in the heat of battle. He’s covered up to his ears - long and droopy, slightly lopsided, but don’t tell him that - in furs and shivering by the fire. It doesn’t help that a few hours earlier he fell through a frozen lake.

Enter Zakk’s hero: Scholar Lleu. A sylvari with bark as dark as the deep ocean, and one of the best thieves you’ve met, you definitely wouldn’t have wanted to meet him in the back alleys of Divinity’s Reach. He jumped in after Zakk without a word, and still hasn’t complained. You wonder if the cold effects sylvari, since they don’t seem to feel it, but you don’t have the heart to ask.

Then there’s Scholar Hathai, the Stormbringer. A female norn engineer, covered in tattoos of Tyria’s wildlife and a massive collection of scars. Her robes are similar to Bjarke’s, but more padded, with leather over cloth. A loose shirt covers her chest and stomach, and her cloak is wrapped around both shoulders, clasp done up. She’s originally from Lion’s Arch, so as indifferent to the cold as she is, she’s still not as tolerant as the Magister. 

Finally, there’s your resident charr. Explorer Dirge Deadstrike, a necromancer with a flair for the dramatic. Although he’s loyal to the Priory, the others have been quick to remind you that the charr’s warband is his first priority. From what you’ve heard, he hates the Flame Legion (like most charr), and has a mild dislike for humans. 

The six of you, plus the infamous Magister Sieran, lie in wait just south of Molent Summit’s entrance, huddled around a fire and trading stories. Sieran sits away from the rest of you, seemingly brooding. One glance her way tells you that’s not the case. She’s keeping watch over your party, line of sight directed at the dredge infested cave. You don’t know much about her, other than the fact that she’s an elementalist who specialises in water attacks. 

“—So I pull up a couple of bone minions, and five seconds later those Flame cowards are running with their tails between their legs!” Dirge guffaws, Hathai and Bjarke responding with booming laughs of their own, and Zakk giggling madly. Lleu is grinning from the other side of the fire, looking like a lunatic as the flames illuminate his face eerily.

You want to laugh, but all these stories about friends and comrades has you feeling down trodden. How would they react to your Ministry past? With laughter and commendations? You doubt it.

There’s a slight shuffling at your side, and in your gloomy trance you almost miss the nudge of your arm. Magister Sieran has joined you, concern etched into her features. 

“You shouldn’t be worried, Novice. We’re too far away for the dredge to hear, and they have such a commanding presence in this area that we’re unlikely to run into other dangers.”

“I’m not worried,” you respond immediately.

“Then you’re dreading tomorrow’s expedition?” She asks, head tilting.

“Not that either.”

The Magister blinks a few times, still confused as to your dreary state. You look to the others, all chatting away, full of laughter and positive tones, and as you do Sieran follows your gaze.

“You can join in the conversation,” she says softly. 

“So can you.” 

“I’ve already told my stories. Besides, I’m supposed to be on watch, although the idea of not seeing an enemy approaching is quite exhilarating.” She smiles at you, eyes shining brightly in the night. She waits for your rebuttal eagerly.

“My stories aren’t worth telling,” you sigh. She must catch your tone, because when the others come asking she dismisses their queries. You mutter a quiet thanks before you turn in for the night, catching a glimpse of her sincere smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one!


	4. A Difference In Opinions Reveals Our Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group make their way into Molent Summit and discover an ancient and powerful artifact is missing.

“Look at these glorious, snow-dusted mountains! They’re magnificent! Oh Bjarke, it must be wonderful to live here,” Magister Sieran babbles on, wide eyed and full of childish curiosity. Magister Bjarke smiles back at her over his shoulder.

“They are impressive,” he replies softly. Bjarke leads the way, staff lazily gripped in his left hand. You and Lleu stand next in line; Hathai, Zakk and Dirge not too far behind. Sieran covers you at the back. All of you are weary, but you’re taking an old passage into the Summit, one that the dredge haven’t been recorded using for a good three months, so hopefully you won’t run into too much trouble.

“Can you believe the dwarves thought this was a good place for a tomb? The Summit feels so alive, yet they would bury their dead instead. Such a strange choice,” Sieran continues.

“How can a mountain feel alive?” Dirge growls out questioningly. 

“It has a certain magic to it, bookah. Surely the necromancer would feel that,” Zakk butts in.

Dirge replies with just as much hostility.

“All this necromancer can feel _pleb _ is death. Not life.”

“It would be too ironic if you felt anything else, fuzz ball!” Zakk chuckles at his own insult, and the charr looks ready for a mid-morning snack.

“Enough you two,” Bjarke calls back. The two in question resort to glaring at each other.

You finally enter the side tunnel, steel clanging on the metal surface planted by dredge builders. You wince at the sound, and your next steps are more cautious. It slows you down slightly, and Bjarke orders you to the back of the group to watch the rear. 

“So, what’s special about this tomb?” you ask, voice lowered almost to a whisper. Sieran glances at you, grinning from ear to ear. In the darkness of the tunnel, the ends of her hair and the pattern engraved into her bark like skin begin to glow. Lleu’s skin and hair does the same, but it’s too far and faint in your eyes. It doesn’t captivate you like hers does. 

“A friend of mine, Explorer Kekt, told me about it back in Lion’s Arch. As you know, the dwarves studied the Dragons, and knew far more about them then anyone alive today does! The Priory tries to study as many dwarven tombs as they can, but this one is completely untouched. Apparently, it’s the tomb of an old prince, and it would have stayed buried beneath ice and rock if it weren’t for a little earthquake.” Once she’s finished talking, you look at her with confusion.

“But weren’t the dredge enslaved by the dwarves back then? If the dredge are already here, won’t they have destroyed everything?” You ask. She smiles slyly, twinkle in her eye.

“Good question, Novice! The dredge haven’t been through this part of the tunnel in months, so they will have dismissed anything misplaced by the earthquake and carried on digging up ore.”

You can hear the distant sound of drills if you strain to listen. Machinery thumps, and some of the louder dredge are even shouting orders. The main tunnel is North West of your current position (you looked at the maps before entering), and the path to the dwarven tomb opened in the north east. 

The group continues onward, chatting away, but you remain alert. Your gut feels twisted, full of a foreboding sense of dread. Your gaze scans the floor, finds broken equipment next to barely scratched armour. The walls are rusting, but not enough for three months’ worth of abandon. As you near the dwarven chamber, sounds of dredge echoing through the tunnel, you realise what’s wrong.

“Stop,” you hiss to your companions. Something in your tone must make them pause, because you doubt expert scholars would listen to a novice three weeks out of practice. 

“What’s wrong, Novice?” Bjarke asks. He tries to keep his voice down, but the cave echoes every word. You wince, but it’s too late to do anything now. If they heard, they’ll be making their way to your location, which means you have to explain quickly.

Instead, you come up with a simpler version.

“Call it instinct, Magister, but listen close. We were supposed to be getting further away from the main tunnel, not closer, so why do the diggers sound like they’re getting louder?”

The group glances at one another, checking, but they all seem to agree with you in the end. 

“What do we do?” Hathai whispers. 

Sieran looks to you, and you stare back. There’s a peculiar look in her eye, full of excitement and readiness, which reminds you of Nasira. When she smiles, you expect to frown, to dig up a past not worth re-living, but instead you grin back.

“We fight them,” Sieran informs the group, and everyone readies their weapons in an instant. You draw your sword and shield - Icewind and Berserker – but it still feels wrong to wield. Sieran must sense your unease, because as the rest charge forward, she stays at your side, hand gently resting above your own. No words pass between the two of you, but there’s a deeper understanding. You nod, and she returns the gesture, before you charge into the fray as well.

* * *

“That talking tree’s gone crazy! Get it off me! I’ll tell you anything, just let me go!” the dredge chief shrieks. Sieran’s arm is outstretched, magic flowing from her to the makeshift whirlpool holding the dredge.

“This _ talking tree _ ’ _ ll _ tear your limbs off, _ buddy _! Now tell us, is this all you found of the tomb, or did you destroy more relics?” To back up her question, Sieran flicks her wrist, and with that motion water shoots toward the dredge, freezing into an icicle just before it reaches his neck.

“There was more. Another relic. We-- we tried to shatter it, but not a single piece of our equipment worked. It was too powerful!”

“What did the relic look like, Chief?” Bjarke steps in. He motions for Sieran to tone it down a notch, but the sylvari doesn’t comply. 

“A sword! Dark and crystal like. We sent it south, hoping our brothers could destroy it,” the chief replies. 

“Anything else?” Sieran asks. 

“Your relic is gone, just like the dwarves will be! The Priory cannot protect them forever--” The dredge chief is cut off, ice shooting through armour and flesh. He coughs, blooding spurting from his mouth. Sieran pulls back and the ice shifts back into water, dripping to the ground. The chief falls into a pool of blood, gagging until he draws his final breath.

Zakk and Bjarke turn up their noses in disgust, Hathai huffs and narrows her eyes at the dead body, Dirge smiles cruelly, whilst Lleu remains impassive.

“Did you have to do that?” Bjarke asks the sylvari as she sheaths her daggers. 

“He captured our people, Bjarke! He destroyed all these relics! That dredge deserved everything he got,” Sieran replies. The Magisters glare at each other, and the others shift uncomfortably.

“Sieran’s right,” you say, catching the shorter Magister’s gaze. 

“We aren’t here to execute people, Novice. No matter what they’ve done,” Bjarke replies. His glare turns on you, but you won’t back down, not from this.

“What Sieran did was the right thing. It wasn’t an execution, it was justice.”

“Today, here and now, those two things meant the same! You may not realise that, considering where you’re from, but that’s how it is.”

“Wait,” you say, anger rising. “What do you mean by ‘where you’re from’?”

The Norn doesn’t pause. As peaceful as he might have been earlier, his anger wins over now. 

“The _ Ministry _, Novice. Probably why you can’t tell the difference.”

178 faces flash before your eyes. Too many dead and buried, too much _ innocent _ blood on your hands. Sieran places a hand on your shoulder, tells you to calm down, but you ignore it. You know what justice is, and you know that the Ministry masqueraded their lies as it, but what does a Norn know about your Ministry? 

“You have that wrong, Magister,” you growl through gritted teeth. “The Ministry showed me all the differences between _ justice _ and _ execution _ . This dredge wasn’t innocent, he was a killer, and he probably wouldn’t have stopped if we let him go. So what would’ve happened then, _ Magister _ ? You let him go and he kills a hundred Norn. That blood isn’t on his hands, it’s on _ yours _.”

You’re chest to chest with Bjarke, red in the face from cold and rage. He glares down at you, and you glare back. 

“We need to find that sword,” Hathai speaks up. She positions herself between Bjarke and you, forcing the two of you apart. “But first, we need to make it back to the Priory. And we can’t do that if we’re fighting.”

Bjarke glances at Hathai. A moment later and he sighs, signalling for everyone to follow. 

You all leave the cave in dreary silence. You volunteer first watch, along with Magister Sieran. As soon as everyone else falls asleep, you can no longer choke back the sobs. They rack your body with rekindled fury. Sieran doesn’t move to comfort you, and it takes you a good hour before you’re calm again.

The only sign that she even noticed your cries is afterwards when she sits by your side, rubbing soothing circles onto the back of your hand. Whispers of _ you’re okay now _are forgotten come next day’s dawn. 

* * *

“I told you, _ come straight back to the Priory _ ! No detours, no distractions!” Gixx is furious when you get back, hands flailing exaggeratedly. Of course, his anger isn’t aimed at _ you _. You were just following orders. 

Sieran is the one getting the brunt of his rant.

“You fuss too much, Steward. We managed to recover some of the dwarven artifacts before the dredge got to them. _ And _ we saved some Priory explorers!” Magister Sieran replies defensively, and despite the tone of the conversation she’s smiling from ear to ear.

“And in doing so, you risked the lives of even more Priory officials. You’re completely out of control, you blasted weed! Next time, I’ll prune your ears Magister.”

“My apologies, Steward. But when Kekt told me about the tomb and the trapped Priory members, I couldn’t just ignore it!”

As the argument rages on, you look at each of your companions in turn. Bjarke ignores you, the Magister completely focused on Sieran and Gixx. Hathai returns your gaze, nods slightly, and you decide to nod back. Zakk is tinkering with something; you can’t make out what it is, but you probably don’t want to find out. Lleu and Dirge are off to the side, inspecting their weapons.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble, Novice. Sieran is something of a… firecracker. And my apologies to all of you as well--”

“Stop fussing, Steward! The Novice did very well – excellent for her first time – and we even uncovered some unusual artifacts. Won’t you translate the writing, Gixx?” She gives him the equivalent of ‘puppy-dog eyes’, and it only takes a moment to break his resolve. You stifle a laugh as Sieran winks at you.

He gestures for an artifact and she hands him a few stone tablets that Lleu picked up in the aftermath. 

“Why I let you wheedle out of these… My goodness. This is fascinating. Tell me, was anything missing from the cave?” Gixx asks, nose deep in ancient scrawl. 

“Yes! The dredge moved and unbreakable sword further south,” Sieran replies enthusiastically. 

“By the cogs of creation, they took the Sanguinary Blade!” Gixx cries.

“What’s a Sanguinary Blade?” Dirge asks, voicing the exact same question you were thinking.

“It’s a legendary sword made of frozen blood. It’s been missing ever since the Stone Summit dwarves vanished,” Zakk supplies. 

Gixx nods, continuing the explanation.

“No one knows who crafted it; but what we do know is that _ Jormag’s _ blood was the main component.” 

At the mention of the ice dragon, Hathai and Bjarke tense. 

“Why would anyone make a sword out of Jormag’s blood? And what does it do?” You ask. Gixx turns to you, but addresses everyone when he answers you questions.

“We don’t know, but it can’t be anything good. All of you, you need to find this sword immediately and return it to the safety of the Priory. If it were to fall into the wrong hands…”

“You can count on us, Steward Gixx,” Bjarke says. His face mirrors Hathai’s, indignation etched onto their features. 

You restock your pack and leave before the sun rises. 

* * *

“I _ implore _ that we all stop and take a minute to gather our strength. We’ve been walking for _ days _ Bjarke, do you want to kill us?” Zakk says, dropping his pack into the snow with a huff. His irritation is evident in his tone.

You can understand where the asura is coming from, surprisingly. Hathai and Bjarke have kept the same pace, and being the taller than the rest of the group means it’s rather difficult for you to keep up, never mind the icy ledges you’ve had to carefully traverse.

“We need to keep moving. I won’t allow the dredge to destroy that sword,” Bjarke replies gruffly.

“We can’t stop them if we die of exhaustion!” Zakk bites back.

The Norn stops, teeth bared as he rounds on the asura. Magic swirls in his hands, flames dancing to life at his fingertips, and Zakk takes a cautionary step back.

“Enough! Zakk is right. I understand what this means to you, Bjarke, but we _ need _to rest.” Sieran steps between the two, palm out to Bjarke in a pacifying gesture. He grunts in reply, but the magic around his hands flickers and dies, and he turns away from the sylvari.

“Camp here then?” Lleu asks, redirecting the focus of the group.

“No,” Dirge replies with a growl. He eyes Bjarke and Hathai, who has joined her fellow Norn off to the side of your group, still aware of the lingering tension. “We’re too vulnerable in a position like this. The area is prone to avalanches, and let’s just say I’d rather not get caught sliding down this damned mountain because of one.”

You look up at the mountain tops looming dangerously overhead. “Dirge is right. I spotted a small overhang a few hundred yards back down the path. It’s not much, but it’ll make a decent enough cover for us to a light a fire, and it’ll keep us out of the danger zone.” 

Dirge sends a quick nod your way, a surprisingly appreciative gesture from the serious charr. Everyone agrees to the plan, far too tired to answer back or think of a better idea, though Bjarke looks displeased by the fact that you’re moving farther away from your goal. He and Hathai trail behind, talking in hushed whispers and grunts that you don’t think you’d be able to make out even if you were next to them. Dirge, Zakk, and Lleu follow not too far behind in complete silence. Even Sieran, who walks by your side, is unusually quiet.

It doesn’t take you long to reach the area you described. Everyone helps to set up camp, and the group falls into a well versed rhythm despite the tension. 

“Do you think he’s still angry about the other day?” Sieran asks as she settles down next to you. There’s only room for three tents to fit under the overhanging ledge, so you’d agreed to share with Sieran. It’s why she’s here with you, and not off on her own taking in the scenery. 

Your gaze falls to Bjarke, hunched over on the opposite end of the fire. He seems lost in his own thoughts.

“I think he’s desperate to stop the dredge,” you reply. She gives you an odd look, and you shrug. “Angry men are far quicker to attack. I mean, he’s probably still annoyed about what you did, but he has higher priorities right now. It’s agitation, Sieran, not anger. Not really.”

Bjarke looks up, locks eyes with your own for a moment. You wonder if he’ll say anything, but the Norn remains silent as he looks away.

“To make a sword out of a Dragons blood. Whoever did that must be mad,” Sieran muses. You hum idly in agreement. 

The hours pass by and the sun disappears behind the mountains. As darkness falls, one by one your comrades move to their tents. Zakk is the first to sleep, followed by a resigned looking Hathai and an even grumpier looking Dirge. Lleu stays longer, sharpening his knives and cleaning out his pistols until he seems satisfied with his work. He enters the tent with Zakk and Dirge, whispering a goodnight to the rest of your group. Bjarke finally follows, nodding at you and Sieran. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll look out for the first few hours. Get some rest Bjarke. You’ll need your strength,” Sieran says to him. He doesn’t reply, just gives another nod before entering the same tent as Hathai. “You should rest too, Isaye.”

“I’m not tired,” you mumble, though you can feel your eyelids drooping and you fail to stifle the yawn that follows. “Steward Gixx said there should always be two lookouts with larger groups.”

Sieran laughs beside you, a quiet and soft sound, her shoulders shaking next to your own. You’d forgotten how close the two of you were sitting. 

“And that’s true, Isaye,” she says. Your head lulls onto her shoulder, seeking support as your eyelids close. You can’t hold back the need to sleep any longer, and you drift into your dreams with ease. A soft echo of ‘_ but I’m sure he won’t mind’ _ is the last thing you here before you drift completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new chapter next week, but I'll be uploading a one shot about the struggle between the Dream and the Nightmare (the struggle we deserved to see properly in game, but whatever, I'm not bitter) - so feel free to read that instead!


	5. I'll Regret this Night for the Rest of My Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will your feet to move so that you can go next, but one glance over the edge and into the chasm has you frozen. Gods, you’ve never been this high up before.
> 
> Sieran grabs your hand, tugs you slightly. You glance away from the edge, eyes meeting hers and seeing sheer determination.
> 
> “Come on, Isaye. I won’t let you fall.”
> 
> You close your eyes and take a deep breath, flinching at the sound of another explosion. Your allies are fighting over there. That might not have mattered at the Ministry, but it certainly matters here. Opening your eyes again, you squeeze Sieran’s hand – a sign to move forward – and follow her lead across the walkway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some fights in this chapter contain descriptions of mild gore.

_ The sound of steel against flesh rings through your dreams, twisting them. Faces appear, all too familiar, growling and crying out. Their hands rake like claws across your armour. They grab at you, pulling you down into the masses of bodies. You try to pull away, hacking and slashing desperately at limbs, only for your sword to phase through the dead. They laugh. They drag you further down into the darkness.  _

** _You deserve this_ ** _ , they whisper.  _ ** _You killed us. Our families. You burned our homes to the ground._ ** _ Their faces contort with rage, shifting them into monsters before your very eyes. _

_“Help_ _me_!”_ You cry out, but to no avail. No one here is listening. No one here cares. _**_You killed us. You’re the monster._**

_ A woman appears above you, dressed in ministry armour. Blood pours from a wound in her chest, and when she speaks, she spits it from her mouth.  _ ** _You did this. You killed for them. Now you will die like we did. _ ** _ She laughs, blood spilling onto your face, blinding you as it creeps into your eye sockets, choking you as it replaces the air in your lungs. _

* * *

You jolt awake with a scream at your lips. Sweat covers your entire body, glistening in the morning sunlight. Your eyes are wide and frightful, unfocused as the images of your dream distort your waking reality. There’s a hand grasping at your shoulder, trying to steady you, but you’re reminded of the demons from your nightmare. It terrifies you so much that you draw your sword against the figure. 

“Get back! All of you! Get the hell away from me!” You cry, sword shaking in your hands. The figure backs off a few inches, hands up in surrender. 

“It’s me, Isaye. It’s Magister Sieran. You’re okay now,” the figure says. You recognise the voice through your haze. You can make out distinguishable features on the figure – the wild leafy hair the colour of bark, glowing coppery skin – and you can feel the paranoia waning. Sieran. Your friend, your superior, not a ghost. Not a corpse. 

“I-- I…” You hesitate, struggling to find the words. Sieran inches forward, hand resting on your arm, gently urging you to lower the sword. You comply unconsciously. 

She moves closer then, placing her hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently. You look up at her, at dark blue orbs with so much worry glistening in them, and force yourself to steady your breathing. It takes a few minutes, and more than a few deep breaths, but eventually your heart rate slows again and your chest stops heaving with panic.

“I’m sorry Sieran,” you whisper. You’ve had a good seven hours of sleep, yet after all that you feel exhausted.

“It’s okay, Isaye,” She replies simply. She rests her forehead against your own, and you close your eyes at the touch. 

At this proximity, you can smell the overwhelming scents of the Sylvari. A strange mixture of daisies and the sea air. You’d never really noticed before, never been  _ this _ close to her, but you find it’s a rather pleasant scent. You certainly hadn’t realised how cold Sieran was to the touch, either. Maybe it’s her attunement to water, or the fact that she spends so much time in the Shiverpeaks.

“You’re cold, Sieran. Freezing,” you feel the need to point it out to her, cheeks burning with embarrassment as the words pass your lips.  _ Why did I say that? _

She chuckles at you, hand deftly stroking your cheek. You gasp sharply at the biting cold.

“You’re warm, Isaye,” she mimics, hand coming to rest on your cheek, thumb still idly stroking skin. “Boiling even.”

Her lips are so close to yours. You can feel the coolness of her breath on your own lips, daring you to lean forward. You almost do. 

You’re too afraid to open your eyes because you  _ know _ you’ll lose yourself to impulse. You barely even know the magister, but that doesn’t matter. You know this  _ feeling _ . This tug and pull of the tides. You’ve felt it all before. 

It’s why you pull away, in the end. Sieran moves to chase you, but your hands push firm against her shoulders.

“I-- I can’t, Sieran. I can’t do this again,” you whisper, eyes open now but avoiding her gaze.

She looks deflated, smile replaced with a small pout, but she sends you an understanding nod. She gets up instantly, and even though her cold frame is gone you don’t feel any warmer. Sieran waits by the entrance of the tent for a moment, and you almost call her back, almost steal the kiss you so desperately want. But instead, the seconds pass by and she leaves without another word, and all you can do is sigh into the empty space.

* * *

The walls around you seem unnecessarily high for an old dwarven civilisation, reaching at least 10 metres before they attach to the stone ceiling. Honestly, how much room does a being so small need? Still, you can’t help but marvel at the old structure as you walk through the abandoned halls.

Your group comes to a grinding halt at the edge of the hallway. The hallway opens out in a vast cavern, walls reaching higher than before, and the chasm at the edge is nigh bottomless. A thin, stone walkway appears to be your only path across.

“Trust the centuries old dwarven cavern to be impossible to traverse,” you mutter, trying to analyse the structural integrity of the walkway by sight alone. 

“Come now, Novice. Centuries? The dwarven civilization lasted for more than two thousand years, and this might be one of their first structures! Haven’t you done  _ any _ research?” Zakk says. His eyes are wide with wonder, darting in every direction. 

“Well, she is a novice, Zakk,” Hathai replies. You’re slightly irritated by the comment – you have  _ experience _ – and turn to bite back, but Hathai just winks at you in jest.

“Novice or not, Isaye should know better. Besides, it isn’t  _ impossible to traverse _ , as you put it,” says Zakk, pointing to the walkway.

“Right, that. You first, tiny,” Hathai orders. 

You expect a string of insults to be thrown at the norn for that comment, but Zakk looks like he’s about to burst with excitement as he jumps over to the start of the walkway. 

“It would be my honour, brute.”

Zakk continues along, almost scurrying, and makes it to the end with little effort. You can hear the distant ‘hah’ echo over the chasm separating you. You turn to the others to find a mix of emotions etched onto all of their faces. Dirge eyes you up, and gestures to the walkway.

“You’re kidding, right? I’m not crossing that!” You say, and return the gesture. He grunts in disapproval, and mutters a similar reply.

“We have to,” Bjarke cuts in, testing the strength by stomping a foot down with a loud food. Other than a thin layer of dust, all seems well. He clambers onto the walkway and makes it a few yards out with no resistance. Then the wind picks up.

Hathai catches it before anyone else, dragging Bjarke back by his cloak before the wind can knock him fully off his feet.

“We can’t cross it while the wind is still strong,” she says, letting go of the cloak. Bjarke grunts in agreement.

“But we can’t just leave Zakk on his own over there. What if the dredge show up?” Dirge says, though he doesn’t look eager to save the asura.

You take a quick look around, gaining a better sense of your surroundings. There’s a walkway around the wall, but it would take a lot longer to get over to the other side, and that’s time you can’t really waste when one of your comrades is on their own in enemy territory. That’s when you  _ regretfully _ come up with your plan.

“Look over at the wall. There’s another path, but it’ll take a lot longer to get around, and might not take us straight to the other side. Since Lleu, Sieran and I are the smallest here, we should be able to get across this walkway quicker. We’ll meet up with Zakk, then meet you guys wherever that walkway ends.”

Bjarke nods along, eyeing up the second walkway.

“Good plan, Novice. But be careful. Fall down that chasm, and you won’t be getting back up.”

“You be careful too, Bjarke!” Sieran replies. 

Bjarke, Hathai, and Dirge begin to make their way around the second walkway, whilst you, Lleu and Sieran begin to tackle the first.

That’s when you hear the fighting start. You can see the explosions when you look up, a sign of Zakk’s engineering madness come to life.

“We need to move,” Lleu states calmly. 

He goes first, the thief so swift that the wind barely hampers him. The moment his feet touch the ledge on the other side, he joins the battle.

You will your feet to move so that you can go next, but one glance over the edge and into the chasm has you frozen. Gods, you’ve never been this high up before.

Sieran grabs your hand, tugs you slightly. You glance away from the edge, eyes meeting hers and seeing sheer determination.

“Come on, Isaye. I won’t let you fall.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, flinching at the sound of another explosion. Your allies are  _ fighting _ over there. That might not have mattered at the Ministry, but it certainly matters here. Opening your eyes again, you squeeze Sieran’s hand – a sign to move forward – and follow her lead across the walkway. 

There are moments when the wind is too strong and you feel your footing slipping, or you balance going, but Sieran is like an anchor. She stays tall and unflinching the entire time, and you wonder if sylvari even know the meaning of fear.

A couple of minutes pass, and finally you reach the end, able to join in the fray and help out Zakk and Lleu.

Now fighting is something you can handle.

The first thing you notice as you draw your sword and shield is that these aren’t dredge. These men are twice your size and bulging with muscle, torso’s bear despite the cold, and baring icy blue tattoos in the shapes of dragons.

Dragons.

_ Sons of Svanir _ . Ten of them, and four bodies down so far. And that’s not including the dead dredge scattered around the ledge.

_ Of course, the Svanir are here for the sword! _ It makes sense to you now, as you duck under a great sword meant to slash across you neck.  _ Jormag’s sword. They must know something about it that we don’t _ .

You come bouncing back up from the roll on the Svanir’s left side and pierce him with Icewind through the abdominal cavity. With no bone or armour in the way, your sword strikes cleanly, and you manage to pull it out with sickening ease.

You don’t have time to breath, though. Another Svanir rushes at you from behind. His footsteps, heavy and loud against the stone, give his position away. You turn quickly, bracing you shield and deflecting the downward blow to your left side. It leaves him open and without the opportunity to counter, and you stab forward, just below his ribcage. His weight jolts forward, and you have to remove your blade and dart out of the way quickly before he topples to the ground.

With a quick spin, you search the ledge for any more enemies, but find all the Svanir are already dead and dealt with.

“Hah! Now wasn’t that exciting! Although, I wasn’t expecting the Svanir,” Sieran says. Her grin is seemingly contagious, because the moment she looks at you, you start to smile as well.

“Exciting? Are you mad Magister?” Zakk asks, out of breath. You can’t blame the poor asura this time, although he really should have thought a little longer and a little harder about going off ahead of the group.

“Perhaps! But everything ended up cherry in the end!”

“Cherry?” You ask. She giggles at you.

“Cherry, peachy. You’re human, you should understand!”

She begins laughing again, skipping around the rest of the group. Zakk ignores her in favour of performing a head count.

“Wait, where are the others?” He asks.

“They took a different path. It was sturdier, less windy, but some of us were worried about you so we took the main path,” you reply. 

“Well, at least someone cares!” he says, smile gracing his lips.

“That might be a misinterpretation,” Lleu says. If Zakk hears him, he doesn’t show it. 

“Anyway, we should keep moving. Wouldn’t want the dredge to destroy the sword before we get to it, especially if it’s as powerful as Steward Gixx says it is,” you reply. The atmosphere shifts, turning serious once more as everyone agrees with you.

Sieran and Lleu take the lead, with Zakk following and you protecting the rear. It’s a strange formation for you, but as high as the ceilings are, the walls are too confined for you to swing your sword with much manoeuvrability.

The journey is a slow one, with Lleu removing traps right and left. Not to mention the fact that this ruin is seemingly never ending. 

Still, the four of you soldier through, avoiding most of the traps (you’ve thanked Lleu twice now, but he was quick to tell you the traps weren’t life threatening), and scaling at least a dozen walls.

You finish climbing up a ledge to join the rest of your companions when you notice the bodies. A dozen of them, all dredge. And it doesn’t look like they were fighting each other. Weapons drawn, the group warily moves forward, along the corridor. Every corner is checked before you round it, and you only come across more dead. 

That is until you round the sixth or so corner.

Two Svanir guards – you can tell from their size and the tribal tattoos dancing across their skin, you’ve seen similar designs in previous encounters – stand in your way. 

“We should take them out as quietly as possible,” you suggest. Guards mean more Svanir just ahead. And causing chaos here would only hinder the group. 

Sieran agrees, sending a nod to Lleu, who quickly smiles in return. He disappears from you vision in an instant, and a few seconds later you can hear the  _ thud thud _ as two bodies hit the floor. 

“Remind me to never get on his bad side,” you say, making your way to where Lleu now stands over the fallen Svanir, wiping his knives on his clothes.

“Think the others are still here?” Lleu asks. 

“Nobody passed us on the way in…” You reply.

“Doesn’t mean they haven’t escaped with the sword. Remember, we still haven’t met up with Bjarke, Hathai, or Dirge. There could still be other routes out of here,” Zakk says.

“But they’d probably follow the same path they used to come in,” Sieran chimes in. She gestures down the hallway, empty of corpses. “Which means they’re probably still down there.”

“Good point.”

You brace yourself, leading the group this time, shield in front and ready to defend any oncoming assaults. Sieran and Zakk flank your left, and you can only presume that Lleu trails behind. The four of you descend a flight of icy stairs, temperature cooling drastically with every step, and as you come closer to an open chamber at the bottom you can hear voices.

You try to scout their positions to get a grasp on how many there are, but from your angle on the stairs it’s impossible. You go to take another step, but Sieran stops you.

“What?” you ask, keeping your voice below a whisper. 

“Listen,” she replies cryptically. 

You strain to catch the conversation, but you can make out enough of it to understand why Sieran had you pause.

_ “-you are filth, a disgrace to-” _

_ “-Jormag’s wrath will devour-” _

_ “-you interrupt the work of Dragon-” _

_ “-Priory scum-” _

“You don’t think…?” you ask, but in reality you know. And it takes you all of two seconds - after seeing the grim look on Sieran’s face – that you can’t lose anyone else. Not like this.

Your feet carry you forward, surprisingly swift over the icy surface, and you rush shield first into to spine of an unsuspecting Svanir guard. He gasps, and you can hear the  _ crack _ as metal impacts on bone, the Svanir falling heavily to the floor. 

Another Svanir rushes your left, but you see him coming and shift all of your weight onto your right foot, dodging out of his path. You swing back with your left leg, knocking against his shin, momentum forcing him to barrel over. Pain shoots through the muscles in your lower leg, but adrenaline allows you to ignore it. Once your left leg makes contact with the ground again, you lift your sword above your head before swiftly plunging down into exposed skin on the Svanir’s back. The blade slides through muscle and fat with ease, and you remove it as quickly as you can, blood splattering with the arc of the blade as you do.

You’re about to engage with another Svanir, but a voice bellowing, so full of rage and power that it stops you in your tracks. 

“ **Enough! The intruders will die by their own hand,” ** a Svanir calls. His helm glistens in the dim light like a beacon, jagged ice so thick that you doubt your sword could carve through it. His body is ghostly pale, and you notice that his left arm, the one wielding the Sanguinary Blade, has been corrupted by dark icicles. His eyes glow a steely blue, forcing fear into those who look his way. It almost paralyses yourself until you spot the bodies next to him.

Dirge, all matted fur and blood, is missing  _ both _ of his legs. The cuts are jagged, and ice is jutting from the wounds. A giant hole in his chest – almost as if he’s been blasted by a cannon – has long since stopped leaking blood. His eyes are wide and unseeing, mouth agape in what you can only hope was a roar rather than a scream.

Hathai’s body is not too far from Dirge’s. She’s pinned to the wall by icicles protruding through either shoulder. There are a number of cuts all over her body, all of them deep, all of them deadly. But the worst part, the part that makes you sick to your stomach, is her head.

The cut on her neck is jagged, corrupted, just like the wounds at Dirge’s thighs, and her head -  _ oh gods her head _ \- lies on the ground a few feet away, resting on its side. 

You look away. You don’t want to see her eyes, don’t want to see how she felt in her last moments before they butchered her.

Instead, you look at Bjarke, the only one still standing. His eyes are black, back hunched, blood trailing down his chest from the wound just above his heart. Something deep down inside knows what’s about to happen.  _ Die by their own hand _ .

Bjarke is –  _ has _ been corrupted by the sword, and now he’s going to kill you. You and Zakk and Lleu and Sieran.

_ Or he’s going to try _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late this one! Got caught up playing pokemon yesterday, so sorry!
> 
> I'll update as usual next Saturday.


	6. In the Quiet of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Feel the cut of this sacred blade, Brother,” the leader calls to Bjarke. “May Jormag’s strength fill you! Destroy them!”
> 
> Bjarke starts forward, movements awkward, almost as if he himself is a puppet made of ice. The remaining Svanir split off, each circling Sieran, Zakk and Lleu. 
> 
> For now, you focus on Bjarke. Or rather the monster that he has become.

Something snaps inside you. The faces flash with a renewed intensity, but they slowly twist into visions of monsters. Dirge’s and Hathai’s faces are among them. The cold bites at your skin, but the flame burning inside numbs the pain. Blue fire flashes along the length of your sword. Your shield – Berserker – glows a faint teal, reinforced with a silent spell of protection.

“ **Feel the cut of this sacred blade, Brother,** ” the leader calls to Bjarke. “ **May Jormag’s strength fill you! Destroy them!** ”

Bjarke starts forward, movements awkward, almost as if he himself is a puppet made of ice. The remaining Svanir split off, each circling Sieran, Zakk and Lleu. 

For now, you focus on Bjarke. Or rather the monster that he has become.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, so loud in your ears that it’s all you can hear. Blood pumps like a fire in your veins. 

You are a Guardian. You failed to protect Bjarke, and Hathai, and Dirge. You won’t fail to protect the others.  _ You won’t fail to protect her _ .

With a scream and a prayer to the Gods, you charge head on, bashing Bjarke’s corrupted husk in the face as you leap up. Momentum from your jump allows you to follow through, knocking the husk off balance. You land on your left foot, then your right, and hastily twist. Slashing without mercy, you cut deep along the husk’s midsection. 

Bjarke’s husk roars, ignoring its most recent wound, and hurls a ball of fire straight at your torso. You narrowly manage to bring your shield up in time, catching most of the flames against the steel centre of Berserker, though some embers dance around the edge and singe the upper half of your left arm. 

You brace again, more prepared this time, as the husk sweeps with a bear like claw, coated in searing embers. The sheer force behind the attack pushes you back a good few inches. His onslaught of clawing sweeps continues until you find yourself backed into a wall. Your back flares up with pain, but you wait patiently for your opening. Each attack sends agony shooting through your nerves as you are knocked time and time again against the wall’s solid surface, but you persist. 

Soon your patience pays off. 

The husk’s attacks begin to slow and you manage to find a break in one of them. You kick off the wall behind you, slamming Berserker into its face once more. Then you slash along its chest, shoulder to hip, dodging underneath an arm as you strike before turning around and swinging your sword again. Your second strike lands deeper, cutting through exposed skin along the husk’s side. It staggers forward, bending over just enough to reveal an opening at its neck. 

You kick the back of its knee, forcing it to drop to the ground. Then you push of its back, jumping upwards, angling your sword towards the exposed skin. Gravity brings you down with such force that you tear through flesh and bone, sword protruding by inches through the husk’s throat on the other side. It gurgles, twitches for an entire minute, trying to swing you off, before it finally collapses to the floor. You fall with it, adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain returns tenfold. 

The moment you hit the ground, everything goes black.

\-------------------------------------------------

_ The ice begins to swallow you, mouth like a dragon you’ve never seen. Frozen fangs tear at your flesh, ripping through steel with ease. Laughing sounds, dark and deep, so close but far away at the same time. You fall, through shadows and water that chills you to the bone, until you reach the bottom of an ocean. You try to call out but cold waters fill your lungs. The pain is white hot and you choke. Eternity passes before your eyes close, and all you can think is  _ ** _I’m sorry, I failed_ ** , _ as the ocean claims you. _

_ \------------------------------------------------- _

Slowly and agonisingly you open your eyes. The darkness you find when you wake scares you, and for a second you believe the dream was real. The panic has you thrashing, crying out in pain and desperation. 

“Shush now, Isaye. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe,” someone says, voice calm and soothing. You know that voice. It feels like you’ve heard it a thousand times before. Maybe you have.

“Sieran,” you reply weakly. A series of coughs rack your body violently, and by the time the fit is over you can taste and feel the lingering blood. 

“Hush, Novice,” she says. A gentle hand wipes the blood away from your lips and off your chin, whilst the other wraps around the back of your head, lifting you up slightly, slowly. The sudden motion makes you nauseous, but the feeling subsides rather quickly. Sieran presses a jug to your mouth and tips it up slightly. It only takes a few seconds of the cool liquid dripping down your chin for you to realise what Sieran is trying to do. You try your best to sip at the jug, wincing as the water passes through your throat. It feels like it’s burning. 

You must visibly grimace or make a similar gesture of discomfort because Sieran pulls the jug away with a look of sympathy. 

“It’s alright, Isaye. It’s just been awhile since you last had something to drink, that’s all.”

“I--” you start, but she silences you before you can get any further.

“Don’t talk. You took quite the beating back there. Rest, Isaye. Regain some strength.” 

She leans down, soft lips brushing against your forehead. When she draws back, she looks down at you. You take note of the dark circles under her eyes, the tight line of her mouth where she’s holding back a smile. Idly you wonder how long she’s been waiting by your side, if she was worried – terrified even – at the thought of losing you too. But before you can dwell too long on the subject, you feel your eyelids drooping. Within minutes, you fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

A few days later and the pain subsides enough for you to start moving again. An entire day is spent walking around camp, wincing at every other step, but it is progress none-the-less. Sieran is by your side for most of it, circles under her eyes getting progressively darker. You manage to persuade her to actually get some rest after an hour of poking and prodding, with some reassurance that Zakk and Lleu will help.

Lleu ends up out hunting for a while, coming back with a hand full of rabbits and a longhorn sheep slung over his shoulders. He prepares the meat and cooks it with practiced hands, and serves both you and Zakk a bowl for supper.

Zakk, on the other hand, watches over the camp, keeping a close eye on you as you roam. He tells you a bunch of different stories, of times spent with Dirge and Hathai and Bjarke. Of how they became a mismatched sort of team.

“Back when I was a Novice – I know, very surprising – Bjarke and Sieran were bickering explorers. Not very different from how they still… acted around each other. It drove our magister mad half the time. But when they weren’t bickering, they were the most amazing team I’d ever seen. We travelled north to Frostgorge Sound, and accidently stumbled upon an imp lord. It was the first time I’d ever really fought something so fierce, but Bjarke and Sieran never hesitated. They took that beast and it’s minions down within a minute.”

“Sounds like quite the battle,” you say quietly. Your voice is still hoarse, but it no longer hurts to drink or eat. 

“It was.” Zakk grows quiet for a moment, staring blankly down at an empty bowl, lips pursed into a thin line. “They were friends, you know. Didn’t look like it, but they always had each other’s backs. If one of them needed help on an expedition, the other would be there in a flash.”

Your gaze wanders over to Sieran, sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm.  _ Does she blame herself for this? _

“If we’d have gotten there faster…” you whisper. Zakk looks at you, shakes his head. 

“Don’t think like that Novice. It’ll only make things worse.”

“I know, but-”

“No, Isaye. No buts. If we regret what we did here, then it will tear us apart from the inside. It will eat at us until there’s nothing left. The best we can do is honour them and move on.”

He gets up from his seat on a nearby rock, leaps off lazily, and goes to throw more wood onto the fire. 

You offer to help, but Zakk declines with a quick and simple no. 

“Save your strength, Novice.”

“You know, I have a name. You even used it earlier.” He sends you an exasperated look at that comment, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, but ‘Novice’ is easier to remember.”

“Right, that’s the game we’re playing. From now on, I’ll call you ‘Shorty’. Zakk’s far too hard to remember for a bookah like me,” you say, small smile gracing your lips.

“Hah, shorty. How original.”

“You love it really.”

At that, Zakk mutters ‘bookah’ under his breath and turns all his attention to tending the fire. You decide to leave him be for now, going to take a seat next to Sieran. For a few minutes, you tense and un-tense the muscles in your back periodically, trying to relieve yourself of the constant ache. You’d stretch, but that still causes shooting pains.

With Zakk half-heartedly ignoring you and Lleu having disappeared once again, you’re left alone with your thoughts.

Idly, you etch a number into the ground, chipping away at ice until it can be seen clearly.  _ 213 _ . Subconsciously you’ve been keeping track. Most of the recent deaths by your hands have been justified – Svanir and dredge who would’ve had no problem killing you. But the 213 th face you see is  _ his _ . Cold and lifeless, eyes glowing eerily with corruption. You can only think of one other person whose death you regretted more than Bjarke’s, but you dare not dwell too long. You tear your gaze from the number, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to think of something else. But that doesn’t stop a single tear from rolling down your cheek.

* * *

Two days later and you’re walking without wincing, so Sieran decides it’s time to head back to the Priory. The trip takes you several weeks, and by the time you get back your legs feel sorer than your injured back. 

Steward Gixx stops you at the entrance upon your arrival, looking ready to ask a thousand questions, you must be wearing a set of grim looks because in the end he only ends up asking two.

“The sword?”

“Gone. Svanir took it,” Sieran replies. There’s no cheery, sing song tone in her voice today.

“And the others?”

A silence passes, feeling like an eternity, before Sieran answers.

“Dead.”

Gixx closes his eyes, sighing heavily. When he opens them again, he looks a thousand years older.

“Take two days. Rest. Then fill me in on everything that occurred whilst you were out in the field. Sieran, a word?” 

Sieran bows, so formal it’s uncanny. If you thought your trip back had been gloomy, it was nothing compared to the current atmosphere.

“What about the sword?” You ask. “We need to find it! We need to stop the Svanir before they corrupt the Shiverpeaks, or  _ worse _ , and then contain it!”

“Enough, Novice! I will have my best Magisters looking for a way to contain the blade. But until then, there is nothing we can do. You understand? Now, go get some rest.” You’re ready to shout him down, tell him how important this is,  _ that he should be prioritising better damn it _ , but one look at the expression on his face stops you in your tracks. 

You look away, teeth grit and gaze cast downwards. 

“Yes sir,” is all you say.


	7. Hard Ground Makes Stronger Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No! I won’t stop until I avenge them Sieran! I won’t stop until those bastards are dead!” 
> 
> “And what if this vengeance gets you killed?”
> 
> “Then it’s the death I deserve!”

“You shouldn’t be training like this, Isaye,” Sieran says when she finds you.

You’re covered from head to toe in a sheet of sweat. Dirty blonde hair is plastered to your face and neck. Your chest heaves and you can hear the drumming of your heart, can feel it pumping tirelessly. 

“You shouldn’t be training  _ at all _ .”

Ignoring her, you lunge forward, Icewind cleaving through a straw dummy. You strike viciously two more times before Sieran steps in.

She places a hand on your shoulder, cold against your exposed skin. You discarded your shirt an hour ago when the heat became too unbearable. You turn sharply, sword swinging – you’re still full of anger at yourself, at everyone,  _ at everything _ – but Sieran’s senses are sharp and a quick flick of the wrist has you flung back by a body of water.

You land back first, a bout of pain prickling at old wounds, before rolling over and face planting the floor. 

Adrenaline rushes through every fibre in your body and your mind is screaming  _ fight _ over and over. You scramble onto your feet and charge forward, a feral cry escaping your lips. Sieran deflects your sword, grapples you into some sort of lock with practised precision, and throws you onto your back once more. 

This time, before you can stand up she pins you at the hip. You go to swing at her with a sword but Sieran sees the attack coming almost the instant you swing. She disarms your sword hand with surprising ease. Clenching your left fist, you strike at with a punch instead, fist arcing along her face. The force is almost enough to push her lithe body off you, especially since you  _ somehow _ managed to catch her off guard, but she persists. Your second punch is caught and Sieran grips your wrist tightly, forcing it to the floor. 

For a few minutes, you strain to throw her off. In normal circumstances you’d probably be able to, but your wounds are still healing and this is the first fight you’ve had in weeks. 

“Isaye! Stop this!” she shouts, but still you struggle. 

_ Everything _ hurts. Your wounds, your scars, your past. Your pain –  _ your weakness _ – angers you. You couldn’t save anybody. What kind of guardian can’t save a damn soul?

“No! I won’t stop until I  _ avenge _ them Sieran! I won’t stop until those bastards are dead!” 

“And what if this vengeance gets you killed?”

“Then it’s the  _ death I deserve _ !”

Sieran’s eyes widen, and for a moment her grip loosens. You shift your weight, tossing her to the side. The both of you land in a crouch, but neither of you move after that. Sieran still seems shaken by what you just said and you have to replay the moment in your head because in your rage filled haze you’re not even sure what the words were.

It hits you like a brick, and guilt washes away the anger, the adrenaline, until all you feel is numb.

“It’s the truth,” you say bitterly. 

“Nobody deserves death, Isaye…” Sieran replies softly. It makes you laugh.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“I know you worked for the Ministry back in Divinity’s Reach.”

She looks at you like she wants to say more, like she wants to ask a million questions. She’s probably heard a few stories but no one really knows what it’s like. Not even most of the humans living in Divinity’s Reach know.  _ Not completely.  _

“I-- the Ministry Guard seems noble at first. Some ministers are fine, and their guard are always happy to help, but most…” You sigh. Sieran’s stance shifts, all defensive posture is gone, and that gesture alone urges you to continue. 

“Most of the ministers are corrupt. And their guard-- well, they do all the dirty work. I was Captain of the Guard, under the watch of Commander Serentine and Minister Zamon. I-- I killed so many to get where I was in the guard. And I killed a great deal more during my time as captain, directly and indirectly.”

You pause when you feel a hand come to rest on you shoulder. A gesture of reassurance from Sieran.  _ No matter what you say, I’m here _ .

“We--  _ I _ killed so many innocent people. Men, women,  _ children _ , all caught in ‘bandit attacks’ and ‘spontaneous fires’. My actions, my  _ orders _ , all an elegant ruse to set up the Queen for failure. I committed treason, day in, day out, against someone I believed in. All because I got caught up in a lie that was impossible to escape.

“And when I finally killed someone close to me, someone I loved with all my heart I just-- I couldn’t go on like that. I couldn’t keep lying. So I ran. And I can never go back to Divinity’s Reach. Too many secrets, too much sensitive information – they’d kill me the moment they knew I was there.”

You lean forward, bowing your head, forehead touching Sieran’s. You clench your eyes shut, holding back the tears. 

“Isaye…” Sieran whispers. You can feel her breath, hot against skin which has long since cooled down. 

“I still see their faces. All those people I killed. Including Bjarke… Nasira. It’s like I can’t escape their deaths.”

Her lips brush against your own. A promise of solidarity. A promise of something new. But you’re stuck in the past, stuck mourning and clinging to the dead. 

“Why should a traitor like me be allowed to live?”

The two of you stay there for what feels like an eternity. You don’t dare open your eyes for fear of what emotion you’ll see plastered on Sieran’s face.

“Hard ground makes stronger roots, Isaye,” she whispers back, shifting positions. She kisses your cheeks – left then right – before she leaves you alone in the training room. 

* * *

A week after your return you feel almost like yourself again. The muscles in your back still ache, a dull and constant reminder, but your other wounds have healed well. 

You stand to attention, back as straight as you can bear to manage and hands clasped in front of you. Sieran is at your left, looking uncharacteristically serious. Zakk and Lleu stand to your right in similar stances to your own. Steward Gixx and a few more magisters stand with you, explaining everything they’ve discovered about the Sanguinary Blade.

Apparently, whilst you were out of commission, Sieran had been working alongside the Steward and a few others in order to create a containment system for the blade. They managed to put together a few priory artifacts and some shavings from a statue of Grenth – Sieran assures you that no disrespect was meant to your gods, and you let the issue slide. After a  _ slight  _ mishap with the makeshift sheath, everything seems set and ready for your group to procure the sword. 

“So, the sheath works. Where do we find the Svanir bastards that have the blade?” you ask. Bitterness seeps into your tone, but you refuse to drown in echoes of the past, so you remain focused on Gixx.

He purses his lips and looks up at you cautiously. 

“I had some arcanists venture into the ruins of Mistriven Gorge. Don’t worry yourself, Novice. I took the proper precautions sending them back there. There were traces of the Svanir, although they themselves were long gone. After a bit of scrying, the arcanists informed me that the Svanir that attacked you – Steag Frostbeard – is at an encampment just south of Black Barl’s Mill,” Gixx replies. 

“When do we leave?” you say.

“Eager, aren’t we? Are you sure you don’t need more rest? There are plenty of scholars who are more than happy to help.”

You scowl, ready to bark out a retort, but Sieran beats you to the punch.

“She’s ready, Steward. You have my word.”

Gixx looks between the two of you; Sieran steadfast in her position and a sombre smile gracing her lips, and you to her side, tense and angry.

“Very well,” he says, resigned. “Don’t forget that mad contraption on your way out. And Sieran? If you mess this up I’ll throw you to the termites, you pernicious petal-brain!”

Sieran’s smile grows, and she nods at the magister with a mischievous gleam in her eye. 

As the four of you leave, you’re sure you can hear Gixx mutter something akin to prayer under his breath.

* * *

It’s a long way to Black Barl’s Mill, but the four of you traverse the Shiverpeaks quickly, weighed down by your weapons, a few rations, and the makeshift sheath. Within a week the mountain pass gives way to slight slopes. Snow begins to melt in patches and the grass crunching under your feet is a comforting feeling. 

Solid ground. Something far easier to fight on.

Under the cover of night, you manage to find a decent camping spot at the bottom of the cliffs of Black Barl’s Mill, out of sight from any weary Svanir watches. None of you risk lighting a fire. 

That night you each spend mentally preparing for the fight that will soon come. Sieran stays beside you, concern hidden behind smiles and a never-ending series of stories about her time with the Priory.

“What about before all that?” you ask, because curiosity gets the better of you and you’re far too agitated to sleep. 

Sieran tilts her head, eyes darting over to the sleeping forms of Lleu and Zakk, before she says anything.

“There’s not much to tell. I was never meant for life in the Grove,” she replies softly. 

“What about your family?” 

“I never really felt a connection to any of my brothers or sisters. Besides, I think they’re all too busy fighting the Nightmare Court to notice if the odd sylvari leaves.”

“You don’t miss them? What about the Pale Tree?” Having lived in Divinity’s Reach for the majority of your life, you don’t really understand the sylvari. Before now, the only interactions you had with them was when one naïve sapling got far too close to the Ministry for anyone’s liking. Their habits are a completely foreign concept.

“I think Mother understands what’s best for us,” Sieran replies quietly, lips pursed and brows furrowed.

“But do you miss her?” you press on, forcing yourself not to think of the family you left behind. 

“Sometimes…”

The silence lingers, heavy and tense. You catch Sieran staring out into the wilderness and follow her gaze. All you see is an abyss, black tendrils seeping into your vision, and in the darkness you find it much harder to escape the nightmares. 

Yet, for the first time in a long time you decide to stop trying to run from them.

“About two weeks after I arrived at the Priory, I received word from a friend back home. The Ministry… they went to my family’s home and torched the place. My mother, my father, and two younger brothers. All of them were inside.”

“That’s barbaric,” Sieran says softly. She leans closer, cloth grazing against the cold steel at your shoulder. 

“That’s the Ministry,” you bite back. You cast a quick glance at Sieran before you continue. “My parents were the ones who pushed me towards a job with the Ministry Guard. We were in a rough place, about to be kicked out of our home, and the opportunity just presented itself. I thought it was a miracle, to be honest. 

“The money was enough to keep my family safe and provided for. It was enough to keep my brothers away from the Seraph. It’s one of the reasons why I took the promotion to captain, because it meant keeping my family out of a war with the centaurs. My position was supposed to guarantee their safety. But then I ran, and now they’re dead.”

“Isaye… I’m sorry,” Sieran whispers. 

“Don’t be, it’s not  _ your _ fault.”

“It’s not yours either. You didn’t kill them, Isaye. It wasn’t your blade.”

“My blade killed Nasira. I loved her, you know? I loved her so much that I risked everything to protect her and in the end  _ I _ struck her down.  _ I _ ended her life. And I could have stayed with the Ministry, been hailed a hero for killing a traitor. But I couldn’t lie like that. I just couldn’t live that life anymore, so I ran. And that’s what killed my family, Sieran.  _ My mistake _ .”

And arm shoots out across your chest and grabs onto your right shoulder, tugging sharply, forcing you to turn and face Sieran. You shift awkwardly, trying to avoid the confrontation, but she pulls you into a fierce hug. Her lithe arms wrap around your neck and your own arms snake around her waist. 

“I lost Bjarke.  _ I killed him _ , and he was the first friend I’d made in a long time,” you mutter, resting your head against Sieran’s shoulder. “I can’t lose you too.”

“You won’t,” she replies instantly. 

A bitter laugh escapes your lips.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Sieran.”

“Oh, I fully intend to keep this one  _ Cherry. _ ” 

You pull back an inch or two, not fully out of the hug but enough so that you can look Sieran in the eyes. There’s determination there but something else too, something softer. A genuine affection you haven’t seen since Nasira.

“We should probably get some rest…” you say quietly.

“Prepare for the battle ahead?”

“Exactly.”

Sieran leans forwards, planting a gently kiss at the corner of your mouth. 

“Good night, Isaye,” she whispers, breath cold against your cheek, before moving away completely.

You barely sleep that night at all.


	8. Corruption Sings a Sweet Song of Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frosted mountain tops you’ve never seen. A blackened sky. A flash of blinding light and a vast, unending roar.
> 
> A pressure against your skull. A magical presence unlike any that you have ever felt. 
> 
> Then cold. Darkness. Nothing but an empty void.

You leave camp just before the sun begins to peek over the horizon. 

The tension hangs heavy over all of your heads. A calm before the inevitable storm. Lleu scouts ahead, remaining hidden from the unsuspecting Svanir that stand in your way. Zakk and Sieran stay with you, letting you lead the way up mountain pass and towards the Svanir camp.

There is a brief moment where you wonder if any of the Svanir are awake and guarding the camp, since your walk so far has been eerily quiet, but a gruff voice calls you out of your thoughts just as you near the main camp.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Three Svanir stand in your way. You can see their weapons - already drawn - glinting in the sunlight as the sun rises over the Shiverpeaks.

“Hello there, norn!” Sieran replies. For a moment you wonder if the sylvari has gone mad as she steps forward, directing the norn’s attention away from Zakk and yourself.

An opening, you realise. A subtle way for you to catch the Svanir off guard.

“We’re here from the Durmand Priory and your friend Steag has something that belongs to us.”

At the mention of Steag the guards tense up. They take a threatening step towards Sieran, taking the bait. You glance back at Zakk, noticing the purple aura flaring up in his hands.

“Steag owes you nothing, pathetic little bookworm.”

You begin to draw your sword and edge towards the right side of the guards. There’s a flicker of movement in your vision, off to the left of the guards, and you know that Lleu has also moved into place.

“Actually, I really think he owes us a sword. Maybe some new friends. And while I’m still thinking about it-”

“Enough! The sword is a holy relic of Jormag. With Dragon’s blessing we will smite you down!” 

Sieran holds her hands out in front of her in an attempt to pacify the rising tension.

“It’s not too late. Just think about what you’re doing. We’re only here for Steag and the sword, none of you have to die here today. Especially not as slaves to a dragon.”

“Dragon makes champions of us all!”

With a roar, he starts forwards, axe raised above his head and ready to strike Sieran. But his movements slow, turn sluggish, and you can make out the tell-tale mark of Zakk’s magic doing its work. 

Sieran strikes swiftly, dispatching the guard with an icicle through his chest. Lleu jumps out at the guard on the left, a simple slice of a dagger across his neck, and the second guard is down for the count as well. 

The third guard begins to realise his situation, but he too is trapped, slowed by the reality bending magic of a mesmer. He doesn’t even get the chance to scream before you plunge your sword through his chest.

You don’t bother sheathing your weapons as you continue through the camp. 

Luck appears to be on your side though. The other Svanir rest peacefully in their tents, completely unaware of the intruders passing through. 

The four of you move towards the largest tent on instinct. 

When you reach the tent, there is a brief moment where you feel your heart stop beating.

Steag stands tall, deadly and covered in twisted ice like a layer of frosted armour. He holds the sword in his hand, ready and waiting. Almost as if he’s been expecting you the entire time.

“The Dragon’s Blood blade cannot be defeated…” he says. His voice is guttural and you can barely make out the words. It’s like he’s struggling to breathe through the corruption. “You were foolish to come here…”

Steag looks straight at you then, feral grin on his face. He laughs. Loud and wild. Even the Svanir that flank him appear nervous before their leader.

“I know you,” he says, stepping forward. Slowly, stalking, feet pounding against the frosted ground with every step. “I see you. Such heart. Such fire.  _ Such pain _ .”

You stand your ground, waiting with your longsword bared in front of you and look the bastard in the eyes. Zakk and Lleu stand ready too, waiting for Steag to make the first move. Sieran stands at your side, sending concerned glances your way.

But to you, Steag is the only person in the world right now.

“I see the power you hold. Raw. Potential.  ** _I could make you so much more._ ** ” 

There’s a flash in Steag’s eyes, a raw energy, one that couldn’t possibly have come from him.  _ Corruption. Jormag _ . 

Then there is a flash in your mind.

White eyes, black slits. Unblinking.

Frosted mountain tops you’ve never seen. A blackened sky. A flash of blinding light and a vast, unending roar.

A pressure against your skull. A magical presence unlike any that you have ever felt. 

Then cold. Darkness. Nothing but an empty void.

** _Champion_ ** .

An eternity passes. There’s a roar, filled with rage, a flash of steel as you rush forward and swing your blade. 

Steag, caught off guard, takes your swing full force. His icy armour cracks, a thin line of red seeping out over his corrupted limbs. 

A second passes. You all take a moment to process the situation and the hit Steag has just taken.

Another second. Steag looks up at you, breathing heavy, getting faster, and lets out a booming shout.

“I will destroy you all! Dragon will prevail!”

He slices downwards, but you’re quick enough to block the attack, locking your sword against his with a grunt.

Around you, the world gets colder. Energy sparks out of the Sanguinary blade in waves, reaching out for willing servants to corrupt. You can feel it calling out to you, but Jormag’s magic cannot seem to break through your anger.

You enter a dance with Steag as chaos erupts. Svanir run screaming, afraid of their leader and the sword he carries. Afraid of the dragon stealing away their freedom.

Lleu strikes out at Steag as well, but his daggers seem to be ineffective, barely scratching the corrupted surface of his skin.

You don’t know what Sieran and Zakk are doing and you don’t really have the time to look for them.

Steag, though strong and covered in ice, is still surprisingly mobile, and you are still getting used to the longsword in your hand. You take a few particularly nasty hits, but pay him back two fold. The corruption tries to seep into your bones, but you persist.

No dragon will stop you from avenging Bjarke, or Hathai, or Dirge.

Steag parries one of your attacks, flinging you backwards almost effortlessly. You roll across the floor, back flaring up with the memory of pain. Your longsword ends up on the floor two feet away.

You go to stand, but Steag kicks you back down. Plants a boot on your chest. A sickening  _ crack _ echoes in your ears and your next breath comes out ragged.

He stares down at you, mouth pressed into a thin line. You see that flash again, white eyes accompanying a long and ghastly grin.

** _Champion. Death. Choose._ **

Steag raises the Sanguinary blade above his head and the world slows.

Would the Svanir strike you down? Is he aware of what the dragon is asking of you, or is he too far gone to care?

** _Champion. Death. Choose._ **

There are distant cries. The crackle of magic in the air around you, though you aren’t sure whose.

You try desperately to grasp your sword, fingertips ghosting over the hilt. 

** _Do you really still wish to fight?_ **

Blood sprays out of your mouth in a horrible, agonising clump as you cough. 

Steag still waits. Watches.

You could choose death. This could be your end, if you let it. How fitting of you to die at the hands of a monster, just like the people you killed yourself.

And yet.

Another shout, a scream, a desperate plea for you to get up.

_ Yes. Because someone still needs me. _

Steag brings the sword down just as you plunge yours upwards.

Something strikes the ground next to your head. Your sword pierces through ice and skin, muscle and bone.

There’s a moment where Steag looks at you, eyes wide and free of corruption. Then they roll back into his head. His whole body relaxes, and the sudden extra weight on top of you causes your sword arm to buckle.

He falls, not quite on top of you, but not quite to the side either. There’s a crushing pain where he lands on the right hand side of your body and you cry out. Then, almost as soon as he’s landed on you, someone is dragging him off.

Another person falls to their knees at your side. Their face comes into view, familiar eyes glistening with fresh tears.

“Sieran…” you try to say, albeit weakly. A coughing fit racks your body, specks of blood spitting up and out of your mouth.

“Hush now, Cherry. Save your strength.”

A soft hand caresses your cheek. Wipes some of the blood away from your lips.

“You should consider yourself lucky, bookah,” Zakk says, suddenly standing next to Sieran. Lleu replaces the body of the dead man on your right, a small smile on his lips. “Had it not been for my magic, you’d be a freshly skewered human.”

“Zakk, please. Is now really the time?” Sieran replies.

“Look, plant! She needs to know about the dashingly smart hero who saved her life!”

“Can’t it wait until later?”

They continue bickering for a moment or two, Lleu looking hopelessly between the both of them, not quite sure how to get them to stop.

The situation has you laughing, as bright and loud as you can all things considered. A few barking coughs interrupt your laughter, and there’s a constant pain in your chest causing more discomfort the longer you remain lying on the ground, but still you laugh.

Sieran and Zakk look at you, bewildered for a moment, before they glance back at each other with small smiles on their lips.

It takes time, but eventually the four of you make it back down to camp. You lean on Sieran and Lleu for the most part, fading in and out of consciousness.

They patch you up, healing you with magic where they can and bandaging up the rest of your wounds.

You rest easy knowing that you’re in their company.

* * *

“You know novice, you have an abnormally high injury rate,” Zakk says one night over food, the camp fire blazing in front of you.

“Hmm, can’t say I’d noticed,” you reply around a mouthful of cooked dolyak meat.

“Did your most recent injury not clue you in?”

“What can I say, Zakk? I’m merely a simple bookah, you can’t expect me to notice these things.” Lleu and Sieran stifle a laugh at that, while Zakk simply huffs.

“You’re no fun to tease, novice,” he says almost dejectedly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that Zakk. She’s actually  _ very _ fun to tease” Sieran jumps in with a grin and a wink directed at you. You roll your eyes in response, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. Hopefully none of your companions will be able to see it in the current lighting.

“Can we move onto something else? As much as I love being the centre of attention, maybe you shouldn’t pick on the injured party?” Your voice is still a little rough, and as you speak you can feel a twinge in your chest as the pain from your cracked ribs picks up again, but thankfully after a week spent recovering you no longer wince at the pain.

A silence lulls over the group. Brief but not unwelcome.

“I’m glad we met, Isaye,” Sieran says eventually. 

You glance up at her across the flickering fire, taking in the vulnerable look on her face. There’s a small smile tugging at her lips, barely even noticeable. She doesn’t stare back, eyes fixate on the plate of food in front of her.

“When Gixx told me I was going to be mentoring a new novice, I thought it would be an incredibly boring task.” She looks up at you then, smile blossoming. “But you know what? I really like you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and I’d quite like it to stay there.”

“I… I really like you too. All of you,” you reply after a quiet chuckle. “I’m glad I got the chance to meet you all.”

“Same to you, Isaye. You’re an inspiration,” Lleu speaks up. His admission has you blushing fully, if only because of how uncharacteristic it is of the usually silent sylvari.

“I must admit, you’ve impressed me a lot in the brief time we’ve known each other,” Zakk pipes up as well.

“Wow, never thought the great and wise Zakk would bless me with such praise.”

“Well I can always go back to teasing you instead!”

You all burst into laughter at that. It feels like you’ve been a group for longer than a couple of months. It’s familiar in a sense, but also entirely new. 

Almost like a family.

The four of you continue to chat over food, but the day begins to wane and Zakk and Lleu decide to turn in for the night.

You opt to stay by the fire, even after a few insistent words in passing from Lleu that you should sleep. The flames have since died down but you keep a few flickering embers alive and tame by throwing wood on top on occasion.

Sieran claims the spot next to you, sitting cross legged and leaning on your shoulder.

This is another thing that’s new to you. This closeness. It feels almost natural for Sieran to seek you out and for you to do the same in return. Like a constant pull in your chest, leading you blindly into the unknown. That pull comes with an anxious energy, reminders of the past, of what happens when you find yourself feeling happy.

Yet something feels different this time. 

Like you’re still afraid, but that fear isn’t crippling.

“I was worried, you know,” Sieran says.

“I know…” you reply. A pause, then a sigh.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you’d have died.”

You slowly lift an arm, wrap it around Sieran’s shoulders and pull her close.

“I didn’t die though. I’m here, always will be. You can’t lose me that easily.”

“That almost sounds like a promise.” A sly smile, a slight nudge of an elbow against your ribs, playful. You grin right back.

“Maybe it is.”


	9. A Leap of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should- you know, rest up,” you say, rubbing at the back of your head sheepishly.
> 
> She tilts her head slightly, internally debating something or other, before taking your hand in hers.

Your arrival back at the Priory is met with applause. Even Steward Gixx looks like he might smile at you, pat you on the back – if he could reach, of course – and pay you all an appropriate amount of praise. 

It would be so out of character for the Steward that it takes you off guard when that’s exactly what he does.

“You’ve all done well to recover the Sanguinary Blade. Colour me impressed. And as for you, Novice, consider yourself off probation,” he says once the crowds have died down.

“I- really?” you reply, a little stunned by it all. Achievements in the Ministry were met with a curt nod and the occasional rise in wages. They certainly weren’t praised by a crowd of people.

“Yes, really. In fact, you will be delighted to hear that you are no longer a Novice. I hereby promote you to the rank of Explorer, with all rights and privileges, etcetera, etcetera.”

You stand there in a daze. Sieran cheers, clapping eagerly and then enveloping you in a hug. Lleu smiles off to your side, patting your shoulder twice before Sieran pulls you away. Zakk looks just as shocked as you do.

“I would also like you to continue your partnership with Sieran,” Gixx continues as if he hasn’t just promoted you. “Perhaps you can keep this deciduous do-gooder out of trouble.”

“It- I- thank you, Steward Gixx. I’m honoured that you’d promote me so soon. And I’m happy to continue collaborating with Sieran.”

“Poor Gixx,” Sieran says slyly over your shoulder. You can almost feel the grin on her face. “You’re just jealous that you’re stuck in here being leader and responsible, while we’re having all the fun.”

Gixx rolls his eyes, utterly unimpressed. He turns away from the group, walking away in the vague direction of his office.

“Rest up, ruffians. I expect you all to be ready for your next assignments by tomorrow!”

With that, Gixx is gone.

Lleu takes his leave next, offering you a nod and quick congratulations.

“Where’s he rushing off to?” You ask, not really expecting an answer.

“I imagine he’s visiting his lady love,” Zakk replies.

“His what now?”

“His lady love! Clean out your ears sometime bookah, it’s embarrassing.” Zakk turns to you then, inspecting you up and down like he’s just seeing you for the first time. “Congratulations on the promotion. Try not to get yourselves killed without us.”

There’s a moment where you think all that time spent together, bonding over your recent hardships, meant absolutely nothing to this asura. But then he grins up at you with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Tease,” you mutter, offering him a hand to shake. He takes it enthusiastically.

“You love it really,” he replies, then bounds off towards the Priory’s personal library.

Then it’s just you and Sieran, standing in the centre of the Priory, staring off after your friends. She untangles herself from the hug, places herself in front of you, and there’s that look on her face again. That hint of adoration.

“We should- you know, rest up,” you say, rubbing at the back of your head sheepishly.

She tilts her head slightly, internally debating something or other, before taking your hand in hers.

“You’re right, cherry,” she whispers, tugging gently at your hand. You allow yourself to be led through the Priory, walking past lodgings, past the sleeping masses or studying members, until you happen upon an empty, private chambers.

“You have a desk,” is probably not the first thing you expected to say upon entry, but it’s the sentence that tumbles it way out of your mouth.

“Most of the Magisters do,” she replies, closing the door behind the two of you.

“Oh, right…” you say, stepping back as she steps towards you. That nervous energy is back, a fight or flight instinct. Do you stay, or do you run, like you have so many times before? “We should talk.”

Sieran pauses, confusion crossing her face. It passes quickly enough, and her features settle on understanding. She moves past you instead, towards the bed, then sits down and pats the spot beside her.

You take it immediately and, despite your anxiety, sit as close as you can to the Sylvari.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be over them, Sieran. Not sure I’ll ever be over  _ her. _ ”

“That’s okay. That-” Sieran pauses, bites her lip. For the first time since you’ve known her she looks nervous, small. Maybe even scared.

“I- I might not get over my past. I think those memories, that love? That’ll stay with me forever. But I need- I’m allowed to move on.” You run a hand through your hair, struggling to find the right words. “I want this. I do. There’s something undeniable between us and I don’t want to miss out on it.”

“Neither do I…” Sieran replies faintly.

“But I can’t deny that I’m scared of this. I’ve loved and lost before. I just- I need you to know that I’m terrified that if I let you in, I’ll lose you too.”

“I thought I told you that you won’t lose me.”

“And I thought I told you not to make promises you can’t keep?”

There’s a frustrated sigh and you’re not sure which one of you it came from, but it acts as a good summary to the current situation. Frustration. Fear. Why is it suddenly so difficult when the past few weeks have made conversation easy?

“I’m sorry Sieran. I want to believe that you won’t disappear, but anything could happen. For all we know, we could be dead before tomorrow.”

She looks at you then, eyes searching. There’s hope and fear mixed onto every inch of her face, no doubt reflected in your own features too.

“So why not take the chance? I can give you space, if that’s what you want Isaye. I can wait, or I can stop altogether. But I would rather know.”

A second passes. You bite your lip.

Another second, and your hand twitches, moves upwards to cup Sieran’s cheek.

On the third second you lean in, lips brushing against hers, before resting your foreheads together.

“I want this. I’m scared, but I want this with you,” you whisper. Sieran places her hands on your hips, waits with bated breath for you to make the next move, true to her word. “I’m willing to risk losing if it means I get to be happy with you for even a moment.”

You kiss her again, less gentle this time, hungrier. You’ve missed this feeling. The knots in your stomach, the light headed daze, the overwhelming happiness bubbling over the surface.

She kisses back just as eagerly, fingertips dancing deftly under your shirt, ghosting along skin.

You stop talking after that, letting your heart guide the way.

* * *

For the longest time, you’re actually happy. You and Sieran make an excellent team, fulfilling assignments in record time and getting into trouble along the way. But the most important thing is that the two of you are together.

Inseparable.

On occasion you meet with Zakk and Lleu, going on assignments together or just helping each other with research. They’re happy for the both of you, and it feels like this little family you’ve made will stick together until the end.

It’s when you’re coming back from an assignment late one night when Gixx calls you into the Archives.

It’s strange. Normally he lets you rest up, debriefing you in the morning, but apparently this matter is of the utmost importance. Too urgent to let you catch up on a couple of hours of sleep.

“Welcome back. It’s good to see the both of you still in one piece,” he says. Tension fills the room, and Gixx has a grim expression on his face.

“It’s good to see you too, Sir,” you say at the same time Sieran smiles and offers a small wave.

“Hmm. We’ll have to skip the pleasantries I’m afraid. I have an urgent errand that I need the two of you to run.”

You share a look with Sieran before the sylvari replies.

“With all due respect Gixx, surely you don’t need a couple of Magisters to run an errand?”

“Nonsense, Sieran! You’re the only two I would trust to do this. I have a friend in Lions Arch – Maeva – who has recently offered a copy of her dragon research to us. She’s been trying to pinpoint weaknesses that we can exploit. Unfortunately, she’s been… unusually absent.”

“What do you mean by unusually absent, Sir?” you ask.

“That doesn’t matter, Isaye. What matters is that I’m worried, and we need that research, so go fetch!”

With that, he dismisses that both of you. The tone of the conversation has shaken you a little bit, but Sieran insists it will be fine. She gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, before bouncing off to restock your supplies.

You meet her at the entrance to the Durmand Priory within the hour, unable to shake the horrible feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach.

* * *

The errand goes about as well as you expect. Maeva, absent as Steward Gixx had informed you, had left her houses’ defence mechanisms activated. 

Although proving to be a slight challenge – honestly if you never see another experiment made by an Asura it will be far too soon – you and Sieran manage to disable the defences.

Then the situation escalates.

Even Sieran, usually bubbly and bright in every situation, can’t shake the dread that comes with the undead scout you kill.

A minion of Zhaitan. In Lions Arch.

“This isn’t good…” you say bluntly. Sieran hums in agreement. “What was it doing here?”

“Probably trying to sabotage my research,” comes a voice from behind the two of you. A moment or two of screaming later, Sieran dispersing her magic seconds before it hits the poor asura who snuck up on you, and you manage to continue a semblance of a conversation with the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Sieran asks, exasperated. You imagine she feels just as worn out as you right now.

“Me? Oh right! I’m Maeva, and this is my house. Salutations by the way! From the look of your uniforms, you’re either from the Priory, or a couple of spies.”

“Priory,” you say quickly. “What do you mean ‘sabotage my research’?”

Maeva looks at the two of you, then down at the slain undead scout.

“The dragons are smart, you know. Smarter than most give them credit for.”

“It’s true, Isaye. A lot of people discount them as mindless beasts, but in reality they’re smarter than even the asura!”

“I resent that statement, thank you very much. But the plant is at least partially right.”

You glance at Sieran, almost as if to say ‘yes, I know the dragons are smart’. She at least has the decency to mutter a quick ‘sorry’ for trying to explain that obvious fact to you.

“So what, Zhaitan’s trying to stop you from uncovering his weakness?” Maeva looks at you, expression just as grim as the Steward’s was.

“It’s worse than that, my dear! I told Gixx that my equations predicted an assault on Lion’s Arch. Clearly this scout was trying to cover it up. After all, an unsuspecting target is an easy one to destroy.”

Silence. Dread fills the air. An inevitable sense of foreboding fills your core as you look out across the bay. You can feel your hands shaking, the distant memory of an ice cold dragon, laughing at you from the Shiverpeaks. Would Zhaitan be as cold and cruel? Would his minions be worse?

“We need to warn the Lionguard,” Sieran says. There’s a slight quiver in her voice, practically unnoticeable. But you know Sieran, and you know when she’s scared. “Maeva, go to the Priory. Show Gixx your research.”

Maeva nods, then dashes away. 

A part of you wishes you could run after her. Away from danger and towards comfort and safety. But how far could you run before Zhaitan followed?

Sieran turns to you then, every bit the seasoned Magister.

“We’re going to Claw Island.”

“What’s on Claw Island?” you ask, feeling a little stupid at the question. Maybe the fear about the dragon attack is getting to you, because Sieran would never find any question you ask stupid.

“Claw Island stands in the harbour of Lion’s Arch. It’s the city’s last line of defence against an invasion from the sea. If Zhaitan comes, he’ll have to fight his way past the fort.”

“So we go there, stop the invasion before it reaches Lion’s Arch.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

There’s something hanging in the air when you reach Claw Island. Like static from a storm, or pressure from the depths of the ocean. Every muscle in your body is coiled and ready.

The Lionguard let you pass without resistance. You can tell from their idle conversation that they can feel the shift in the air too.

Part of you thinks about warning them as you pass. You decided against it. No sense it worrying the people, causing a panic before the threat even arrives.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Watch Commander Talon,” you say, offering a quick bow. Talon looks at you bewildered, but says nothing otherwise.

“You said it was urgent in your letter?” He asks in response.

“Yes. One of Zhaitan’s minions breached the city. We managed to destroy it, but the creature was a scout. An attack is imminent.”

Talon actually has the gall to laugh, and you and Sieran can’t help but stare, mortified at his behaviour. “If there were any sign of an impending attack, we’d know about it.”

You’re about to argue your point, but someone interrupts.

“By the bough – Sieran?”

“Trahearne! It’s an honour to see you again!”

“How’s the Priory treating you these days, young one?”

“Oh, just dandy!” She turns to you, gesturing at her companion. “Trahearne, this is my dear friend Isaye. One of the kindest and most dedicated Magisters in the Priory.”

“I’m honoured, Sieran. Flattered really, but is now the time for this? Impending attack and all that?”

“Of course! Sorry!”

This new sylvari – Trahearne – steps in. “That’s actually why I’m here. I’ve had similar intel to yours I imagine. Commander Talon, Zhaitan’s forces are indeed approaching.”

Talon, seemingly irritated by yet another unwanted individual, huffs a flippant reply.

“I’ll indulge your concerns. Speak to my commanders, Brakk and Mira. Review our defences. You’ll see that nothing will make it past Claw Island.”

So that’s exactly what you do. Waste time reviewing defences while the threat of Zhaitan looms ever closer. You can feel the air getting thicker as the minutes agonisingly pass. It’s almost difficult to breathe.

At least Trahearne and Sieran have some time to catch up before the fighting starts.

It’s strange. There’s something bubbling up inside you, alongside the anxiety or dread that comes with the rising tension.  _ Jealousy. _ Because Sieran hasn’t spoken a word to you since this firstborn showed up. You block out most of their conversation, focusing on the sea, in an effort to ease the jealous pang.

So it’s easy enough for you to spot the ships breaking water in the distance.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

* * *

You fight.

You fail.

Underprepared, you knew it. You could tell from the moment you met the Watch Commander and in the way the risen rushed the beaches, numbers far outmatching your own.

So you opt to retreat. Brand Claw Island as a lost cause, come back stronger.

The plan is simple. Light the watchtowers. Let Lion’s Arch know a threat is on its way. Then regroup and gather willing fighters to retake the island.

But nothing is ever that simple. Not for you.

It’s the first dragon you’ve ever seen. A horrible, twisted thing, radiating stench and death, like a walking plague.

It’s terrifying.

But you stand steadfast. Let the others rush back to the boats first, taking on the risen that dare try to follow while that  _ monstrosity _ looms ever closer.

“The dragon’s servants will never let our ships sail!” Sieran shouts over the chaos and rising winds. You know she’s right.

“Our soldiers are too injured to fight. They can barely walk Sieran! We can’t form a defence and get them all on board. Not like this.”

She nods, fending off another couple of risen before turning to face you. There’s a temporary lull in their assault.

When you look back at Sieran, your stomach drops.

“Someone needs to hold them off,” she says. Determination shines bright in her eyes. But something else. Always something else.

“Sieran…”

“If someone stays, they’ll have time to escape.”

You step towards her, hand stretched out, grasping desperately.

“Don’t do this.”

She smiles, small and sad.  _ That’s it, _ you think.  _ Determination and a guilt stricken finality. _

“Not someone. Me.”

You stop in front of her. Hand on her cheek. Breath heavy. Eyes watering.

“You can’t win against them. There’s too many.” She knows this. You can see it in her, clear as day. “I’m staying with you.”

“You can’t, Isaye. They need someone to defend the boats as they escape.”

“I don’t care!” You retort. It’s the first time you’ve ever shouted at her, but she doesn’t look surprised by the outburst. 

She places a hand over your heart. Grips tightly to your armour, like she’s afraid you’re about to disappear.

“They need you.”

She pulls you into a kiss. Longing.  _ Begging _ . But not for you to stay. When the two of you pull away, it’s not by far. Your foreheads rest together, noses touching, breath mixing in rancid air. 

“When you and I met, I didn’t think about anything but myself. I wanted fun, excitement, risks… I didn’t really care about others.” 

You close your eyes, trying to fight back the tears and failing. She wipes them away the instant they fall.

“But you- you changed that. You’ve taught me the most important lesson. If you love someone, you’ll walk through fire for them.”

There’s a roar, wild and raging, and you can hear the assault of the risen begin anew around you. But it feels so distant right now. So irrelevant compared to the conversation you’re having.

“That’s why I have to do this.”

She kisses you again. Slow. Desperate. 

This time when you part she pushes you away. Holds you at arm’s length.

There are tears in her eyes too.

“I love you,” you say, choking out the words behind a sob.  _ I don’t want to lose you _ goes unspoken.

“I love you too, Isaye.”  _ I’m sorry... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking back I'm glad I didn't post this last Saturday. Would've been a horrible chapter to add during the festive period.


	10. And Watch Me Crash Beneath the Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wonder whether this woman might be a captain.
> 
> Then you find yourself not caring.
> 
> “Fucking pirates…”

You’re on autopilot as you clear a path to the ship.

Numb.

Uncaring.

One, two, three swings, the flash of steel against rotting flesh.

Gold at your side, injured but fighting. Scared.

Another swing, another risen falls to the floor. You soldier past and onto the next. Again and again until you reach the docks.

“Everyone, climb aboard! Hurry!” Trahearne, shouting above the chaos. Commanding the masses. 

You wait, holding back the hoard. You wait until the last person climbs onto the ship. You wait, desperate, hopeful, for a woman you know you won’t see.

A hand on your shoulder. “Isaye.”

You turn. Trahearne stares back, has the nerve to look sorry. He tugs at your shoulder. The risen loom closer, too close, if you don’t leave now they’ll over run the boat.

_ Let them come. I can take them. Let me fight. _

Trahearne tugs again, a little harder this time. You allow him to drag you up the gangplank. 

Then the ship sets sail.

But the risen are smart. You know this. Realise this as their ships linger in the distance, ready to fire at your escape.

_ Sieran will not die for this. _

You shake off Trahearne’s hand, charging to the back of the ship. You will not let these people die.

Something roars. You’re not sure if it’s you or the dragon currently circling the fortress of Claw Island, but the sound is guttural and full of rage.

The risen boats fire on your own. 

The people below on deck, injured and trapped, let out a symphony of screams. 

You don’t turn to look at them. Instead, you hold out a hand, glaring out across the sea.

_ Sieran will not die for you to take our lives here. _

Summoning all the energy you can, saying a quick prayer to the Gods, you form a shield at the back of the ship. Brilliant blue energy spreads from you hand just as the first shot collides with your magic. 

It’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. But there are people counting on you, and a quiet rage still fuels your magic. 

So you stand firm. Your shield flickers with the hit, but doesn’t falter. 

The next shot comes. Then another. Then another.

Then nothing.

Nothing but quiet.

You glare out across the sea, scanning the risen boats for a sign of further attack. But nothing comes.

“They’re too far away to fire and it doesn’t look like they’re going to follow us,” Trahearne says. You hum in agreement, but it doesn’t sit well with you. “You can let go now, Isaye.”

He waits, watching your arm as it begins to shake. Then your shoulders. Then your entire body. 

_ You can let go now. _

The blue shield disperses slowly, curling back in on itself until it reaches your hand at the centre. The moment the shield collapses entirely, so do you. Falling to your knees. Gasping for breath.

Trahearne goes to steady you but you growl in response. He decides against it, opting to leave you alone instead.

There’ll be a moment in the future where you wonder why he left. Did he have more important matters to attend, or did he just understand that you needed space?

For now, you’re lost in an eerie silence.

That rage you’d felt before subsides. Gives way to something worse. Sorrow.

Tears begin to fall, crawling down your cheeks, from eyes to chin, then dripping onto the wooden decking of the boat. There are no sobs. No whimpers. No sound except the waves splashing against the sides of the boat.

* * *

The Lionguard tend to their wounded, ignoring you as you step off the boat. You’re fine, physically. No cuts. No bruises. So you let them fuss over their comrades.

Your feet carry you away, walking aimlessly around Lion’s Arch. Until you come to a stop in front of a nearby bar.

You shouldn’t. 

You _ know  _ you shouldn’t go for a drink right now.

You do anyway.

Taking a seat at the bar, you order a couple of drinks. Whiskey – straight and strong, exactly what you  _ don’t _ need, but it’s what you order.

The current customers seem wary. Maybe they can smell the stench of death that lingers on your clothes. Maybe they can sense your inner turmoil, like a storm coiling within your very soul, lightning ready to strike at the slightest pressure.

The bartender sets the drinks in front of you, glass clinking heavily on wood. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he says, voice gruff. A charr. 

You half grunt, half laugh in response, unnerving the bartender. A part of you wonders how insane that must have sounded. Most of you doesn’t care, just downs the two drinks in front of you like the only ingredient is juice, then orders more.

No one else bothers you after that. 

* * *

“Ma’am, I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender says almost an hour later. “I think it’s time you left.”

How many drinks have you had? Too many,  _ definitely _ too many, but to you it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“I think it’s time for  _ you _ to leave,” you reply, slurred. 

There’s a shattering of glass against the wall behind the bar. It takes a couple of seconds for you mind to catch up, to register that you’ve just tossed a glass at the bartender.

He growls at you, about to say something more, but then there’s a knife sinking into the bar just to your left, splintering the wood.

It draws your attention away from the charr.

You look at the knife, then the hand holding it, then follow the arm up until you reach a feminine, human face.

“And I think you should listen to the good man. I doubt your Priory would want to bail you out of the cells here in Lion’s Arch,” the woman says. It’s commanding. You wonder whether this woman might be a captain.

Then you find yourself not caring.

“Fucking pirates…” you mumble.

That hadn’t meant to be out loud. Oh well.

The woman hums, a little disgusted with your attitude you assume, but then she just sighs.

“You came back with the Lionguard from Claw Island, didn’t you?” Her question sets you on edge. Brings back a flood of recent memories, ones you’d been trying to drown in drink.

“The fuck do you care if I did?”

Then you do something really stupid. 

You take a swing at the woman. Blindly. The alcohol has dulled your senses, and the woman easily ducks under your arm.

She’s quick. A blur of motion – it makes you nauseous as you try to track her movements.

You’re not entirely sure what happens next. Maybe she hits your head, maybe she gets you in a headlock. All you know is that in the space of ten seconds, she manages to knock you out.

* * *

You wake up on a soft bed, head pounding. Sunlight pours in through a slit in the curtains, streaming directly into your eyes. It makes the pounding worse.

“You’re awake. Good,” a voice calls. Familiar. Commanding.

That woman from before.

You opt to ignore her, trying to sit up in one simple motion. You succeed, but it unsettles your stomach, bile rising in your throat. A pain shoots through your temples and you have a second or two to react.

“Bucket’s there,” she says, gestures to the floor at the side of the bed.

You grab it.

A moment passes. You think foolishly that maybe the need to throw up has passed.

Then you cough into the bucket oh so un-gracefully. Vomit burns your throat on the way up, taste lingering on your tongue.

The woman must see your awful wince and take pity on you, offering a glass of clear liquid. Water probably. You gladly take it, rinsing out the awful aftertaste, then spit it back out into the bucket.

When you finally get your bearings, you notice that you’re not in a cell.

It actually looks like a bedroom.

You glance quickly at the woman, questions on the tip of your tongue.

“Didn’t think the Priory would take kindly to me locking you up,” she says with a shrug.

“Why do you think they would care?” you retort. Voice hoarse. Wincing. Gods why is it still so bright out?

“Maybe they wouldn’t. But Trahearne informed me that you were a magister. Asked me to find you, sounded pretty worried too. Figured it would be bad press to lock up a magister.”

You laugh at that.  _ This Trahearne guy really gets around. _

“So where am I?”

You glance around the room again, studying the interior. It’s a simple enough quarters, clearly lived in, but unexpectedly tidy for a pirate.

“My living quarters.” She stands then, extending a weary hand. “The name’s Ellen Kiel.”

You grasp her hand, give it a quick shake. It’s an awkward formality more than anything else.

“Is there a ‘Captain’ to go with that?” you ask curiously.

“Not yet.”

The silence that follows is awkward. Unable to find any suitable words and still reeling from the throbbing pain in your head, you continue your inspection of Ellen’s quarters.

She watches you silently, allows you the moment of silence you crave. You briefly wonder what she sees. A mess of a soldier, perhaps? Someone to pity? The thought irritates you.

“Do you have a name to go with ‘Magister’?” She asks bluntly after a couple more minutes. She folds her arms the instant you glance at her.

“It’s Isaye.”

“Well, Isaye, I better go tell Trahearne you’re awake.”

* * *

“You had us worried, you know,” Trahearne says almost an hour later. You avoid his gaze, instead peering out of the window. Ellen waits patiently, leaning against the door to her quarters, unusually content for someone whose privacy is currently being invaded by a complete stranger.

“You say ‘us’ as if any of you really know me.”

“Sieran wrote back to the Grove frequently. She mentioned you often--”

“So what? You think a few letters mean anything? That you suddenly know every little detail about my life?”

“That’s not what I was implying, Isaye.”

“Then why say it at all?”

You round on him then, frustration bubbling to the surface. He holds his hands out in front of him, trying to pacify you with a submissive gesture.

Unfortunately for him, he’s pressed one too many buttons and you’ve always been quick to anger. Especially when you’ve lost something important – or rather someone.

Seeing his face doesn’t help – far too similar to the younger sylvari, but not quite similar enough.

251 deaths on your hands. 

The flash of a bright smile across your memories.

A broken promise whispered from a mouth that will never get the chance to speak again.

“Isaye?”

_ Crack _ .

A sudden pain dancing across your knuckles. Trahearne holds his cheek, blood trickling down his chin.

Ellen looks to make a move, maybe to restrain you, but Trahearne simply shakes his head. She glances between the two of you warily, but opts to once again lean against the door.

Your breaths come heavy. Your fists remain clenched at your sides, nails digging into callous skin. You try desperately to calm yourself down, but the tears that start to fall seem inevitable.

“It should’ve been me…” comes out as a broken whisper. “I should’ve been the one to stay behind.”


	11. My Waking Hours Seem Like Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Unfortunately not. The human god of mass murder –”
> 
> “That’s not what he –”
> 
> “– is not a deity that likes to use the same trick twice. The idol’s no longer enchanted.”

The next few hours pass in a blur. Trahearne and Ellen stay with you until you’ve calmed down enough to act like a reasonable human being, though both of them act as if they’re walking on eggshells around you. As if one wrong word could set you off again.

Eventually, both you and Trahearne take your leave. Ellen bids you a curt farewell – maybe she hopes she’ll never have to see you or your temperamental attitude again – and you make your way towards the Durmand Memorial.

Steward Gixx waits quietly, barely even notices your approach. He’s too busy staring blankly at the memorial.

“Steward Gixx,” Trahearne greets. Gixx sighs, shakes his head, then turns to face you both. From this distance you can make out the glistening of tears in his eyes.

“Is it true?” he asks you.

A moment passes – you wish Trahearne would answer in your stead – before you square your shoulders and swallow your grief.

“Yes. I’m sorry Gixx.”

* * *

Your plan works well. With every Risen you kill, you feel yourself grow stronger, until eventually the wraith makes his grand appearance.

“Another hero, come to die.”

The wraith smiles at you, it’s mouth a black, wispy void. You want to fight him, wipe that pathetic grin off his face, but Trahearne orders you to keep you focus on his minions instead.

“He’s not quite corporeal yet. He’s trying to goad you into a fight. Don’t listen, don’t react, keep fighting his forces and he’ll show soon enough.”

The idol’s power flickers inside you. Pushes you towards the wraith.  _ He belittles you. Show him fear. _ It takes everything in you to ignore both taunts.

“The old gods have abandoned you.”

_ Balthazar is right here. Right beside you. Show him wrath. _

“Your courage is failing.”

_ Show him pain. _

“Surrender yourself and die.”

_ Show him suffering. _

“Trahearne! Tell me that bastard wraith is ready for me to kill!” You shout to your companion through gritted teeth.

You wait with baited breath as Trahearne inspects the wraith. He looks corporeal to you, but you’re no necromancer, and falling for his taunts now could end in failure if you can’t hit him.

Fortunately, Trahearne grins back at you.

“Now, Isaye! Time to strike him down.”

You find yourself grinning too as you turn on the wraith.

You strike out with your longsword, catching the wraith just before he manages to jump out of the way, tendrils of shadow like substance leaking from his new wound.

His smile falls briefly as he inspects the damage. When he looks back up at you all you see is hate in his eyes.

“I’ve heard your name before,” he says, strangely calm considering the current look in his eye.

Energy coils around his hands, a sickly green glow. 

“The sylvari screamed it, just before she died.”

You freeze. It’s the all the distraction the wraith needs.

Magic crashes directly into your chest, knocking you back with such force you end up almost 20 feet away. Pain flairs through every muscle, and you can practically feel old wounds opening once more as your back collides with the stone floor.

You don’t waste time getting back up though.

There’s a fury surging through your heart – driven by loss, by pain, by the idol of Balthazar whispering in your ear.

You take a step forward. Then another. And another.

The wraith continues his onslaught, throwing more magic your way, but this time you’re ready. Instead of hitting you head on, it meets your own magic instead, a thin second skin above your armour.

You’re 10 feet away when his onslaught slows.

5 feet away when you see the fear flash through his eyes.

_ Show him true death. _

“Her name,” you growl as you raise your blade to strike. “Was Sieran.”

The wraith desperately lashes out, trying to force you away with magic, but your strike rings true, arcing across his chest and leaving necrotic tendrils seeping out of an open wound. There’s a brief pause as the wraith gasps for air he never even needed, before his form begins to disintegrate, starting from the wound in his chest and surging outwards until nothing is left.

“Well done, Magister! You channelled the idol’s power without turning into a ravaging, blood-crazed psychopath!” Gixx says as he proudly inspects your handy work. It takes you a moment or two to actually process what your superior has said, blood still pounding in your ears, still tense from the fight.

“I-- what?”

“Ah… I may not have mentioned that particularly side effect.”

You sheath your sword with one hand, brushing hair back and out of your face with the other whilst shooting Gixx an exhausted and somewhat concerned look.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” you say between breaths. But you know he’s not. You’d felt it calling out to you, tempting you, and you’re not quite sure the idol had so little an effect that Gixx seems to believe it did.

“Never mind that! Good job, Isaye,” he says in response. Trust Gixx to brush off your concerns like that – he either believes you have a great deal of willpower, or maybe that you just needed to get some anger off of your chest. Either way, you’ll take the praise where it’s due. It’s not often Gixx dishes it out after all.

“Thank you…” you say, still rubbing sweat from your face. Gods, there’s a lot. Was it from all the fighting, or just trying to stay in control? “Do you think we could use it again at Claw Island?”

That question gives him pause. He studies you briefly, eyes flickering with a hint of caution, but he swiftly brushes it aside.

“Unfortunately not. The human god of mass murder –”

“That’s not what he –”

“– is not a deity that likes to use the same trick twice. The idol’s no longer enchanted.”

“Oh…” It’s probably for the best, you think solemnly. In spite of asking about it, you don’t think you would be able to stomach another round with the idol anyway, especially not  _ there _ .

“Now then, take the opportunity to rest up Isaye. I’ll speak with Trahearne about any potential plans of action we have before we head back to retake Claw Island.”

* * *

“Well, this is certainly a surprise…”

Ellen Kiel stands in front of you, leaning against the door frame to her house, eyeing you warily. You look a little sheepish - even slightly nervous now that all the action has died down - as you rub the back of your neck.

“I take it you’re finished summoning the dead to Lion’s Arch?”

“That’s not what we-- never mind. That’s not why I’m here,” you say, running a hand through your hair and trying your best not to let irritation seep into your voice. By the look on Ellen’s face it hasn’t worked. “I’ve been told to ‘rest up’ – well, ordered to really. Gixx has a tendency to act like an overbearing parent sometimes, which is nice, but right now I just –”

“You’re rambling.”

“Right…”

There’s an awkward pause. Ellen’s giving you the time to explain yourself, but you can see irritation in the way her brow creases and her eyes narrow.

“I’m sorry. I just-- Gixx wants me to get some rest, but the only place I really have that I can sleep in is back at the priory and, well…”

_ I can’t go back there if she’s not there too. _

You don’t say it out loud, but you don’t really need to. Your voice cracks a little as you’re trying to explain and you can feel your eyes glistening as you’re unable to blink back the tears.

Ellen watches you with a mixture of what you can only assume is pity and resignation. She doesn’t need to let you in, but she does anyway. An act of kindness in the face of a looming threat.

She steps inside and leaves the door open, allows you to waltz in as if you’ve done this a thousand times before.

“You can take the bed if you want to rest up properly,” she calls back to you, busying herself with making a drink whilst you stand awkwardly in the entrance to her living quarters. When she finally turns around, she offers you a glass and you quietly mutter a grateful thank you. “You can also just sit down, if you’d prefer.”

In a way, you’re grateful for the way Ellen seems to be able to read you so easily. Back in your Ministry days, it might be cause for concern, but now it’s a weight off your shoulders.

The silence that falls around the two of you isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s manageable. Ellen seems to be pouring through files – of what you’re not sure, but you don’t really care too much either. What happens in Lion’s Arch on a day to day basis isn’t exactly any of your business.

Once you’re sure she isn’t going to kick you out, you start removing your armour piece by piece. The Priory’s standard gear is covered in muck and blood that you never had time to wash off and clean properly and you’re sure that you don’t look much better than your armour does. Every so often Ellen glances up at you, maybe just checking to make sure that you’re still real – or more likely checking to make sure you’re not about to lash out like last time – and every time she does you notice her frown deepens just a fraction.

“What?” you ask eventually, your greaves and a single boot all you have left to remove.

“There’s a shower if you want to clean yourself up.”

“And what exactly are you implying, Kiel?”

“That you’re filthy and I don’t think you’ve washed since you got back from Claw Island.”

Her bluntness on the matter is actually a surprise and you’re a little taken aback by it. She catches your shocked expression though and quickly backtracks.

“Not that I don’t get it – we’ve all had our fair share of shitty weeks. I’m just offering, if you want to use it.”

She doesn’t push, but once again she reads you like an open book.

After all, you’ve tried to busy yourself since Claw Island, tried to keep on moving because you’re terrified that if you stop, even for a second, then you’ll be forced to confront everything that happened. And you’re worried that if you do stop to take that breather then you’ll break.

You mull the offer over as you pull off the rest of your armour, once again in silence as Ellen goes back to reading through her files.

How long can you put it off really? You’ll have to face it all eventually, and it would probably be far better to rip the bandage off now rather than let the wound to your heart fester.

“Where it is?” You ask once your greaves are finally off and placed with the rest of your armour.

“Second door on the left,” Ellen replies, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile.

* * *

When you return, Ellen is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you see a note resting atop a pile of clothes – not yours, which are also missing – and a glass of water on the table.

_ I thought you’d appreciate a fresh pair of clothes, so here’s some I had spare lying around. You can keep them. _

_ Yours are currently drying outside. Oh, and I’ve taken the liberty to give your armour a quick clean too. That’s also drying outside… _

_ Anyway, I’ve got a couple more errands to run, so I won’t be back until later. Feel free to leave whenever, I imagine you have all sorts of important priory things to do. _

_ ~Kiel. _

_ P.S. Don’t touch my alcohol. I’ll know. _

_ Stick to water. _

You crumple the note up once you’re finished, a tinge of frustration because  _ I’m not an alcoholic so I don’t need to be told not to drink, thank you very much, _ and toss it onto the table. Though you have to admit, a part of you actually appreciates the thought, no matter how bluntly put.

After that, you finish getting dry, then get changed into your new set of clothes, ignoring how much you look like a pirate now, and kick back on the sofa in Ellen’s living quarters.

All it takes is a few seconds after your head hits the pillow for you to fall asleep.

* * *

_ A flash of red. Fresh blood, fresh tears. _

_ Anger and grief, then calm. _

_ The warm Krytan sun turns to humid, sea air, turns to cold snow and clouded skies. _

_ A new home. A new team – no, a new family. A smile on your face. _

_ The smile turns to horror, to anger, to pain. _

_ Your family, torn away. One by one. Impaled, decapitated, corrupted. _

_ Pain makes way for determination. For something more, but not quite yet. _

_ Ice and snow makes way for frosted grass, but you feel the cold looming. It should be getting warmer. _

_ Something isn’t right. _

_ The norn almost kills you. Too slow. A rumbling laugh echoes in the distance. There’s a sword in your hand, made of ice and blood. _

_ No. _

_ This isn’t right. _

_ You’re happy. You see her face, can’t quite make out the details, but you know it’s her. Can feel the ache of want and need in your chest. _

_ Your family, halved but still there. _

_ Cold mountains turn to shores carved out by an unrelenting ocean. _

_ The smell of death creeps in like an early morning fog. _

_ But it’s still cold. Too cold. Nobody else seems to notice. _

_ She takes your hand when the dragon comes. Death cutting through the sky. Champion against champion. _

_ No. Not right. _

** _Use it._ ** _ She says, but her voice is not her own. You listen anyway. _

_ Ice cuts through death with ease. You carve a path, through the undead, through the living. And she is by your side, still breathing, still smiling. _

** _I could have helped._ ** _ A voice whispers once the dragon lays dead at your feet. They must know, must feel that same  _ wrongness  _ that you feel. That the kin of their master has dug their claws into your very soul. _

** _We could have been strong together, you and I. We could have lain waste to the land._ **

** _WE STILL CAN._ **

* * *

There’s a nearby crash and bang, followed by the rustling of paper as it falls to the floor. There’s movement at your side, fast but not fast enough, and you tackle the unsuspecting person to the ground.

“What the –” she says, before she regains her own senses and forces you off. Or at least tries to.

There’s a brief moment where you’re poised to strike the struggling person beneath you right in the face, but recognition flares before you get the chance.

“Ellen? Shit I –”

That shock is all the chance she needs to push you away. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She demands, pinning you to the floor in return. You let her, in part because you know she’s not your enemy and also because your mind is still racing from that nightmare.

She holds the scruff of your collar rather than properly pinning you down, lifting your back up and off the ground as she glares down at you.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, shit Kiel, I didn’t-- I don’t know…”

She heaves you up after that, forcing you to sit back down on the sofa before returning to collect the papers haphazardly strewn all over the floor.

“You often wake up like that?” she asks, frustration evident in her tone.

“Like what?”

“Screaming.”

_ Ah _ . That explains the crash and bang you heard. You must have spooked her when you woke up.

“Sorry. It’s a… recent and unfortunate change in, uh, waking habits.”

“You should try talking to someone,” Ellen says, just as you lounge back against the sofa, head resting atop it, sighing deeply. “I mean it. Bottling it up clearly isn’t good for you.”

“It wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t understand.”

“So what if they don’t understand? You have to get it out there, tell someone what’s going on inside that head of yours, ‘cause if you keep going like this you’re going to end up getting someone killed.”

Your eyes snap open and you lean forward so that you can glare daggers at Ellen. She glances your way and does nothing but glare back.

“Talking to people doesn’t stop others from ending up dead, Kiel. If it did, I would’ve tried it sooner. Hell, maybe I could go and have a lovely chat with Zhaitan, right? Ask him if he’ll stop raising an undead army and see what he says.”

“Really? You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Doesn’t matter what you meant, because in the end? Talking doesn’t solve anything.”

Ellen looks like she’s about to say something more, but thinks better of taking the bait and continuing the argument. Instead, she lets out a frustrated growl and drops the papers that she’d just picked up onto the table top.

“Look. You lost someone that you cared about. Your heart’s broken and it feels like it’s never going to mend. I get that, Isaye. But you can’t just go around pretending everything is fine when it’s not.”

“Sitting around sulking won’t help either.”

“You’re right. But you have to get over it. You  _ have _ to move on. Because right now? You think you’re doing what’s best, staying active and keeping your head busy. But all you’re doing is tricking yourself into thinking that you’re moving forward, when really you’re just going round in circles.”

You want to say something in response, but every time you try to formulate the words, they die at the back of your throat. You can feel the tears welling up again and you grind your teeth together in some last ditch effort to fight the tears off.

“I don’t know how to move on…” you say eventually, tears falling steadily across your cheeks.

Ellen looks at you, really looks at you, before sighing deeply.

“No one can tell you how to do that, unfortunately. But there are people out there who can help, if you let them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because every time I let someone in, they end up dead. Every time.”

“Sieran…” she says slowly, gives time for your shoulders to tense, for you to process the name before continuing. “She wasn’t the first person you lost?”

“No…”

Ellen reaches out, places a hand gently on your knee. “How many?” she asks.

“Too many…”

And then you bury your head in your hands, run them back through your hair, let them come to rest at the back of your head. You close your eyes tightly, willing the tears to stop, but they drip down onto your pants in mismatched patterns.

There seems to be an eternity of silence, Ellen unable to pick out the right words to bring you comfort, and you being generally unresponsive. But it doesn’t last forever it like it seems to want to. Instead, you manage to find your voice.

“You’re right, you know. About this becoming a problem.”

You glance up, eyes red and puffy, and Ellen shoots you a sorrowful smile.

“I thought it was fine, for a while. That I’d gotten over everything. With Sieran around, it felt like I’d managed to move on. But maybe you’re right and I only convinced myself that I’d been moving forward.”

“Losses like that are capable of opening the oldest of wounds, Isaye. You may well have moved on before.”

“I’m not so sure. This anger, it keeps rising up in me. The idol we used to lure that wraith to Lion’s Arch? It called to that anger and I could feel myself slipping. And it’s not the first time that’s happened.”

Ellen squeezes your knee, grounding you, giving you permission to continue.

“It feels like every time I lose someone, something powerful is there to take advantage of that loss. Something on the side-lines, waiting to swallow me whole.” You don’t mention Jormag and the battle with Steag. Don’t think Ellen would understand.

“Like a person? Or something bigger?” Ellen asks.

“I don’t know,” you reply, dodging the question. “There always seems to be something powerful looming whenever this happens. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’m worried that the next time it happens, I’ll lose control entirely. I don’t want to lose myself, Kiel.”


	12. Reunions Are Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “Like a person? Or something bigger?” Ellen asks.
> 
> “I don’t know,” you reply, dodging the question. “There always seems to be something powerful looming whenever this happens. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’m worried that the next time it happens, I’ll lose control entirely. I don’t want to lose myself, Kiel.”

You can’t tell if you feel better after your conversation with Ellen Kiel or not. There’s a dull ache in your chest, a longing you won’t be able to replace for a long time – if ever – and a fear of something darker lurking beneath the surface. But then there’s a part of you that feels lighter, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders now that you’ve found someone else to share the burden.

And of course, being back at the priory brings an onslaught of memories. A smile here. A hearty laugh there. Words whispered between the towering bookcases down below, meant for your ears alone.

You shake your head to try and clear your thoughts. The wind picks up and the cold air is a stark contrast to the muggy weather of Lion’s Arch, so you cling to that feeling, the piercing wind, and focus on how it feels against your overly exposed skin.

You’d forgone your usual cloak – it hadn’t made it back from Claw Island in one piece – and you would have to remember to collect a new one before you froze to death.

_ One foot in front of the other, Isaye, _ you think dully, forcing yourself to finally move into the main hallway of the priory. 

Explorers and magisters on either side eye you up as they pass by. Sometimes you can hear the whispers, the curious ‘ _ is that Sieran’s partner?’  _ and ‘ _ the poor girl’ _ , and you have to force yourself to ignore them and continue walking. Fists balled at your side. Teeth bared to the world in a constant snarl. 

In fact, you’re so focused on ignoring everyone that you almost walk into a sylvari standing idle in front of the Heart of the Priory.

“Isaye?” the sylvari asks quietly.

“Sorry, I wasn’t-- Lleu?” you ask, eyes wide. He shoots you a small smile in response and places a hand on your shoulder. 

“It’s good to see you back…” he replies, but his sentence drops off. You both know why, the unspoken tension an obvious hurdle for you both to overcome.

“It’s good to be back,” you say eventually. “I just wish it were under better circumstances…”

Lleu nods, doesn’t bother to keep up the smile now that you’ve broached the subject.

“Yes, it’s… It’s hard to believe she’s gone…”

The two of you both glance away from each other at that. Stood this close to him, you’re able to see the light glinting of the tears in his eyes. 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Lleu cry in all the time you’ve known him.

“Yeah…” You say. Can’t find the strength to say more, voice already cracking, and you can feel the tears starting to stream down your cheeks too.

“If you’d like – once you’ve taken care of the undead at Claw Island – Zakk and I are looking to gather a few close friends from the priory. People who knew her. We’re going to celebrate in her honour.”

_ Strange _ , you think. You had never suspected Lleu to be the celebrating type. Afterall, every time you came back from a mission with him he always rushed off to find his partner. 

“I’d like that. But not after Claw Island.” You place your hands on his shoulders, squeeze them in reassurance. “After Zhaitan. We’ll celebrate Sieran once we’ve finished what she started.”

When Lleu looks back up at you, there’s a moment where he studies your features, searching for something you’re not quite sure about, but whatever he sees makes him smile.

“Of course. If you need us at the end, when you face the bastard, we’ll be there on the frontlines right with you.”

“Who’ll be on the frontlines?” a new voice calls. Another familiar tone.

“Why, you will be Zakk,” you reply, swiftly turning around to face the asura. You notice the glint of tears in his eyes too and wonder what a mess the three of you must look like to the rest of the priory.

“Hmmm, only because  _ Sieran  _ would want me there, not because either of you bookahs have asked.” Zakk cracks a cheeky smile and you manage a half sob, half laugh at his typical antics.

“Unfortunately, we’ll have to catch up later. Gixx is looking for you,” he continues, nodding over his soldier in the general direction of Gixx’s office.

There’s a small sigh that escapes your lips. “Do I have to go?”

Lleu places a hand on your shoulder as Zakk laughs – not quite his usual, booming laugh, but still better than whatever noise you’d managed earlier. The sylvari is the one to urge you forward though.

“We still have a job to do, and we owe it to Sieran to do our best at it.”

* * *

“Steward, Trahearne,” you say as you step into Gixx’s office, garnering their attention. You try not to think about the fact that this is the first time you have stepped into his office on your own since you met Sieran.

“Ah, Isaye! It’s good to see you back at the Priory,” Gixx replies. 

“It’s good to be back, sir.” 

Gixx studies you for a moment and you resist the urge to fidget. You tried your best to sound  _ normal _ with your response, but perhaps it came out more half-hearted than you realised.

Whatever he sees, it must be nothing too concerning, as he proceeds to inform you of your next task. 

“Yes, yes. Well, enough of the pleasantries. Trahearne believes he may have a plan to retake Claw Island.”

“Is that so?” You eye the sylvari standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Having been caught watching you – you imagine that he was looking for the same signs of lingering grief or anger that Gixx was – he clears his throat and has the decency to swiftly avert his gaze.

“Yes. Obviously, we’ll need to gather some allies before we jump right in to retaking the island, but I have an idea of a few individuals who may be able to help.” He pauses for a moment, glancing from you to Gixx and back again. 

_ He’s definitely still cautious after that punch, _ you think idly, nodding at him, giving him silent permission to continue.

“Not too long ago, an associate of mine was trapped in Orr. Since her return, she’s been training sylvari to fight the Orrians. I know it seems typical to suggest a group that has been fighting Orrians, and you’re likely wondering why I’d suggest this group over anyone else, but—”

“They’re sylvari, so they’ll be immune to Zhaitan’s corruption. Anyone can learn to fight Orrians, but not all of them will turn against us the moment they die. Though I imagine that’s not the only reason you were thinking of them.”

“Precisely,” he says, not nearly as bewildered by your interruption as you thought he would be. Gixx sends you a warning glare for that interruption though. “That and Tegwen – the associate I mentioned being trapped in Orr – she has a knowledge of the Risen to rival my own. She and Carys are extremely skilled wardens. I have no doubt that the two of them, alongside the others that they’ve trained, will be able to help us when the time comes.”

“I’ll also send out some messages to a few researchers that could help,” Gixx jumps in once he is sure Trahearne has finished. “And of course, I’ll make sure the rest of the Priory is up to the task when we finally make a move on Claw Island.”

“Of course. Thank you, Gixx.”

The steward smiles at you in response, before ushering both you and Trahearne out of his office. Evidently, the conversation between the three of you is over. Not that you can blame him – you have a lot of work ahead of you.

“Now go on. You can talk and walk, since you have some urgent recruiting to do.”

“So,” you start as both you and Trahearne make your way back up the entrance to the Priory. “Tegwen and Carys, what are they like?”

Trahearne stares at you for a good, long moment, almost like you’ve grown a second head, before he finally replies.  _ That punch really has affected him. I should definitely apologise. _

“They’re good friends. I used to mentor Tegwen, though that was a long time ago now, and when she started mentoring Carys, I was always available to offer advice. Tegwen tends to be the wiser and more sensible of the two. Carys is… well, you’ll see.”

“That bodes well. Where are we meeting them?”

“Bloodtide Coast.”

* * *

“Firstborn!” the sylvari calls out as you and Trahearne approach the oasis in Whisperwill Bogs. “It’s an honour to see you again.”

Trahearne smiles, returns the greeting in earnest as another sylvari skips up next to the first one.

“Tegwen, Carys, this is Isaye Caldoran.”

“Do they all greet you like that?” You ask, because a part of you can’t help it. Sieran did the same back on Claw and Island.  _ She greeted you with a heart full of love and in her final hours you stole her attention from me. _

Trahearne’s smile drops instantly. Has he learnt this dance by now? This constant pull and push of two opposing forces. 

_ Stop, _ you think, immediately guilty.  _ You need to stop this. It’s not his fault. What would Sieran think? _

You’re at a standstill, Trahearne hesitant to answer and you unwilling to compromise on this misplaced resentment, but fortunately Tegwen cuts through the mounting tension with effortless grace.

“I would greet all my brothers and sisters the same way, so long as they do not seek me out with ill intentions.”

“That’s because you’re the paragon of diplomacy, Tegwen!” Carys chimes in. Tegwen sends her companion a pointed look – you know that look, you’ve seen it a hundred times before, the small smile and the adoration – and Carys just grins back at her.

“I wouldn’t say paragon…”

“I would!”

“Carys…”

“Well,” you say swiftly before anyone else can get another word in. Are you saving Tegwen from the embarrassment, or yourself? You’re not entirely sure. “Forget I asked.”

Trahearne looks relieved, Carys seems relatively unbothered by it all, and Tegwen mouths a silent thank you.

A moment passes, completely silent, whilst Tegwen takes the time to compose herself.

“It’s good to meet you, Isaye,” she finally manages.

“Likewise,” you say in response, a curt nod to go with it.

“Great actually!” Carys jumps in, wrapping one arm around Tegwen’s shoulders as she addresses you. “Trahearne wrote ahead and was filled with nothing but praise for you! Of course, he did fill us in on some of the gloomy parts of your recent, ah, misadventures – but don’t worry! He told us not to mention it!”

“Carys!”

“So we won’t!”

Tegwen and Trahearne instantly avoid your gaze, looking a little sheepish and very mortified on your behalf. The latter is trying desperately to determine whether or not you’re about to pick a fight with Carys.

_ You could, _ but then Carys just continues talking like nothing was ever wrong to begin with, something about Trahearne and Tegwen and how they’ve had ‘a bunch of misadventures too’ and you just can’t find the heart to be angry about it. It’s almost soothing, in a way, how Carys isn’t acting like she’s walking on eggshells. She’s not trying to find the best turn of phrase, she’s not trying to avoid upsetting you, she’s just being herself.

You end up laughing – going from a small, quiet chuckle to a booming fit of laughter – whilst Trahearne looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. Tegwen looks almost as confused, if only because she doesn’t have as much context, and Carys takes your laughter in her stride, even going as far as to join in.

It’s not like Sieran, who always knew the right thing to say or do to cheer you up. It’s not like Ellen, who was happy enough to let you sit around and cry even if there was nothing she could say or do to help. It’s different –  _ it’s so Carys,  _ you’d think later on after you’d forged a friendship to last a lifetime – and it’s exactly what you need.

No holding back. No sympathetic glances.

_ Just someone to pull me forward. _

* * *

“Thank you for helping to destroy Herboza. Trahearne’s letters didn’t do you justice at all,” Carys says as you’re walking back to the oasis. Tegwen and Trahearne hang back, no doubt discussing the firstborn’s grand plan to retake Claw Island. The very same plan he has yet to tell you about.

“Well, I’m not the only one he’s sold short then. You and Tegwen were a lot better in battle than I was expecting – and I mean that in the nicest possible way,” you reply, letting out a short, nervous chuckle. You hadn’t meant to sound so condescending.

At least Carys doesn’t take it that way at all. She just grins back at you.  _ From all the grinning she does, her cheeks must be really sore. _

“What other way could you mean it?”

“Well—I, um…”

“I’m joking, Isaye.” She laughs at your expense. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.  _ Thank the gods that Trahearne and Tegwen are behind me right now. _

“Honestly though. You, Tegwen, even the other sylvari – you were all impressive out there. I’m sure I won’t be the only one honoured to have you fight at our side against Zhaitan.”

“If we fight at your side, you mean?”

“Of course… Sorry, I didn’t mean to presume.”

“Presume all you’d like, Isaye,” Tegwen interrupts. You glance back at her over your shoulder and she smiles back. “You’ve helped us clear the danger from the oasis, so now I’d like to return the favour. After all, Zhaitan threatens all of us.”

“That’s great to hear. Thank you – both of you.” 

You look from Carys, to Tegwen and back again, before finally glancing over at Trahearne. He looks deep in thought and you find it extremely likely that he hasn’t even heard the conversation going on around him.

“Trahearne?” You ask.

“I would like to take a slight detour on our way back to Lion’s Arch.”

You blink, confusion etched onto your face. You look to Tegwen and Carys, hoping that perhaps either of them can provide you with some extra context, but they look just as lost at his outburst as you do.

“Why the detour?” you ask, hoping that it will prompt Trahearne to explain. Thankfully, he does just that.

“I would like to travel back to the Grove, so that we may speak with the Pale Tree. I—she may be able to offer us an extra piece of wisdom before the battle ahead. If that’s alright with you, Isaye?”

“Of course. Tegwen, Carys, we’ll meet you at Lion’s Arch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think I'm not that big a fan of sylvari, but then I keep adding in the sylvari characters to this fic and I have to wonder - am I lying to myself? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter in 2 weeks, as usual!


	13. The Start of Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “They’re good friends. I used to mentor Tegwen, though that was a long time ago now, and when she started mentoring Carys, I was always available to offer advice. Tegwen tends to be the wiser and more sensible of the two. Carys is… well, you’ll see.”
> 
> “That bodes well. Where are we meeting them?”
> 
> “Bloodtide Coast.”

Detour is definitely not the word you would use to describe your journey to the Grove. Had you known beforehand –  _ perhaps I should have paid more attention in my geography lessons, or maybe I should invest in a map – _ that you were going to be travelling through Lion’s Arch in order to reach the Grove, then you would have been less inclined to agree to Trahearne’s little trip. Of course, you  _ should have _ known really. After all, the first time you came to Lion’s Arch was when you travelled by Asura gate from Divinity’s Reach and all of the gates to the big cities are clustered together.

The fact that particular piece of information has slipped your mind is rather embarrassing, though you will happily chalk it up to the long, heart breaking few weeks you’ve had recently.

“Trahearne,” you say as the two of you near the Grand Piazza. He glances your way, slowing down out of curiosity. You match his pace and continue. “Was it just guidance you sought, or are you feeling homesick?”

He stares back at you, coming to an uncharacteristic stop.

“Would my answer change your decision to come along?” He asks, avoiding the question. 

_ Maybe it would, _ you think, eyeing up the glowing purple gates off to a cliff on your left. Being this close reminds you of a time long since passed –  _ how long has it been now? A year? Or two? _

It would be easy enough, wouldn’t it? To hop through a different gate and find yourself on familiar ground.  _ Home. _ But it’s not home anymore, it hasn’t been for a long time, and no amount of longing for a  _ dream _ will change that.

So you eye a different gate instead, one where you can make out the dainty, almost human looking figures guarding the entrance. 

_ Sieran never got to go home _ .

Well, that’s a thought you’d rather not spiral down with.

“No, I’m just curious. I’m allowed to be, aren’t I?”

“My apologies, then,” he replies and instantly begins walking again, though not quite as quickly as your previous pace. 

_ Why would someone so loved seem so hesitant to go home _ ?

“Look… I know we’re not on the best of terms…”

“You noticed then?” He says. You’re about to glare at him, but the small ghost of a smile on his face makes you realise that he’s being sarcastic. It’s an improvement on your previous tension, so you decide to let it slide. Besides, you actually want to try and make amends – at least before you’re forced to meet his mother.

“Hah, very funny. It’s difficult to miss.” The gates are closer now and your thoughts threaten to spill over to that of  _ Sieran _ , and  _ what could have been _ or  _ what should have been _ , so you speed up just enough to overtake Trahearne, before stopping directly in front of him.

“Isaye…”

“I know I’ve been—well, harsh doesn’t seem like the right word…”

“Unbearable? Enraged?”

“Okay, maybe not that bad!” He gives you a look – one that says ‘excuse me, have you looked at your actions lately?’ – and you respond with an exasperated sigh. “Fine, fine, enraged or whatever. I don’t care. What matters is that I’ve been taking out this whole mess of a situation on you and that’s not fair.”

“You were jealous.”

“What?”

“You didn’t hide it well, Isaye. You were jealous of the attention Sieran paid to me when we met, and when she died you turned that jealousy into something more tangible.”

You ball your hands into fists at your side, gritting your teeth and willing yourself not to start a fight here with Trahearne, who takes the chance to continue talking.

“And I understand that. You were in pain and needed an outlet. I would have preferred that outlet had not been me, or violence, but sometimes we cannot control how we react to a tragedy. Your outrage was justified in the moment, even if your actions were not.”

He stares at you – not defiant, more reasonable – and you let those words sink in. Your fists uncurl. You let your shoulders relax. 

“You’re not… mad?”

“If I were to respond in kind, it would only worsen the situation,” he replies. A moment later and he even smiles at you. “Besides, you knew Sieran far better than I did.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to mourn.”

“No, but it means that her death hurt me far less than it hurt you.”

You glance away, looking out across the waves gently rocking against the cliff sides. Trahearne does nothing but place a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing as if to reassure you that he truly is fine with all you’ve done.

“I really am sorry, Trahearne. About everything.”

“I know.”

* * *

You find yourself at a loss for words when you first step out of the asura gate and into the Grove. 

The first thing you notice is definitely the Pale Tree. It’s -- she’s? -- hard to miss, towering well above the landscape, a shining beacon to all - sylvari and the other races a like. 

Though nothing else in the Grove stands out as much as she does, you take notice of the bright colours littered amongst the earthy tones and lush, forest greens.

Where you stall to a stop, Trahearne keeps walking. He greets the other sylvari as he passes, a small smile ever present on his face. More than once, he turns back to check on you, but you’ve yet to find the heart to move from your spot.

Eventually, he has to circle back to you.

“Enjoying yourself, Isaye?” he asks.

You glance at him briefly, in part to determine whether or not he’s irritated by your sudden interest in the scenery -  _ it’s still so hard to tell from his voice -  _ but he doesn’t look bothered at all. In fact, you think his smile might have grown.

“It’s… I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s truly beautiful,” you say, more honesty and awe in your voice than you would have liked.

“Isn’t it?” Trahearne replies, softly chuckling.

You nudge him in the side, rolling your eyes as you finally find the motivation to move from the spot you had been rooted to. It’s playful, not something you would have considered being around Trahearne mere hours ago. It’s nice.

He catches up in an instant, guiding you to the ‘Omphalos Chamber’. 

“It’s where our Mother’s avatar manifests - one of the highest points of the Pale Tree,” he explains.

As you walk, you notice the sylvari watching the two of you. 

Some of them wave at Trahearne. Some of them come up to greet him personally. Though there are some that cast him wary glances and send him half-hearted smiles. Trahearne himself doesn’t seem to notice.

You also take note of how some of them look at you.

Wonder in their eyes. Fear. Anger in some and adoration in others

_ How often do humans pass through the Grove?  _ You wonder idly, to garner such a mixed reaction.  _ In the company of one of their firstborn, no less. _

Eventually, you make your way up to the Omphalos Chamber. The ride up is unexpectedly smooth - the strange, plant-like contraption you had used as transportation didn’t seem at all capable of holding one person, let alone two.

You step out into the chamber, following Trahearne as he makes a beeline for the woman standing gracefully at the base of one of the branches. 

The very same woman who is glowing a vibrant yellow. Not quite golden light, but close.

_ Ah, _ you think,  _ this must be the Avatar of the Pale Tree _ . No other sylvari had looked quite as grandiose. 

“Hail, Mother,” Trahearne says, voice more commanding and confident that you have ever heard it before. He bows low, though the Pale Tree waves him off, a smile of nothing but adoration gracing her lips.

“Trahearne. It is good to see you, my son,” she replies. Voice soft, slow, but still prominent enough to demand your attention. “And you have bought a friend.”

You share a look with Trahearne - to hear the two of you be called friends, especially after how rocky your partnership with him started off, is almost enough to make you laugh.

The Pale Tree must notice though - her smile widens ever so slightly and before she speaks she chuckles to herself. 

“Mother,” Trahearne interjects. His cheeks seemed flush, though the complexion of his bark makes it hard to tell. “We seek your wisdom. Zhaitan’s forces have taken Claw Island, looking to move further and further inland. We must retake Claw Island before they get the chance to claim more ground.”

“Of course, my son.” She turns from Trahearne to you, inspects you up and down. There’s a tug -  _ something familiar, powerful, distant _ \- but before you have the chance to make sense of the feeling, the Pale Tree beckons you both closer.

“I have much to show you both. Tyria mourned as her children were cut down by the beast.” You take a shaky step forward when the Pale Tree says that. Then another, before you find your stride once more. “The land wept, and the world shuddered. You seek to right that wrong, to bring an end to the beast, and your answer lies at the heart of Tyria’s future - and your own.”

Trahearne and you share a look once more. This time, confusion is etched onto both your features. 

“Our futures?” You ask. Your voice is unsure. In the presence of the Pale Tree, you find yourself struggling to speak at all.

“Yes, Isaye. Both of you must face the darkness and become guiding stars in the night.”

You shake off the ill feeling in the pit of your stomach - something akin to dread at the realisation that the Pale Tree already knows your name, because dread for someone as tranquil as this seems unfounded.

“Is it even possible to defeat Zhaitan?” Trahearne says. It’s a question you had not dared to face.

She looks at Trahearne, then back to you. “Together. United and with great courage, you will triumph. Now come, I will show you a vision of the future and the challenges to come.”

“A vision?” Trahearne says, equal parts awe and excitement.

“Challenges to come?” you say at the exact same time, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice.

For a moment, the Pale Tree ignores both of your questions. Magic swirls around her, light blues and blinding whites, arcing and dancing in spirals before it centers on a spot in front of the Pale Tree, growing ever brighter. There’s a flash - you cover your eyes quickly as magic radiates from it’s point of origin, and when you look back after the light dies down you can see a circular presence of magic take hold.

“This portal is a gateway into the Dream. There, you will see glimpses of the past, present, and future.”

“You’re allowing us passage to the Dream? Mother, though I am honoured, I do not understand how this will help us find what we seek.”

“When you step through the portal, you will see Orr as it is - and was. Scenes of the past may impact your futures, may guide you on how to restore Orr.”

“And defeat Zhaitan,” you interject. The Pale Tree nods in response. “Will we be in danger?”

“Life always holds danger, Isaye,” the Pale Tree says. If she weren’t the Avatar made from powerful magic, you might say that the smile she wore was coy. “Show courage and you will persevere.”

Trahearne nudges you to get your attention.

“The apparitions within the Dream are as real as you or I and they will seek to do us harm,” he explains.

“Have experience with that, do you?” you reply in jest.

The look on his face - half grinning, half grimacing, if you’d had to guess - tells you that he has in fact experienced this sort of thing first hand. Which you don’t find comforting in the slightest.

“I question if I am ready to see such truths…” he says eventually, cautiously eyeing the portal. You regard it warily as well.

_ We have to do this. For Tyria, and for everyone we’ve lost. _

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” you say. Trahearne turns to face you, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty, and you hold his gaze.

“I’ll remember that, Isaye. Thank you.” With that, Trahearne steels himself and steps through the portal.

You’re about to follow, almost sticking your right foot through, but the Pale Tree stops you.

“You have faced a great deal of challenges, Isaye Caldoran. To walk this path, you will face many more. For some, you will face these threats with allies at your side. For others, you will walk alone.”

You turn back, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. The Pale Tree gazes back, nothing but sorrow in her eyes.

“You say that as if you know anything about me,” you bite back. “But how could you? Up until now, we’d never even met.”

“Whilst true, my children often bring tales back to the Grove. Those that have found a home with the Priory speak very highly of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. The idea of you making that much of an impact on someone's life had never crossed your mind. But then you think of Lleu and wonder if he had ever spoken of you to his peers or his mother. You try to think of other sylvari at the Priory that you had spoken to, but you always tended to shy away from conversation with strangers there.

“I dare say that a few of them even look up to you - aspire to be like you,” she continues.

“Then they probably don’t know me very well either.”

“Perhaps. It is likely that they choose only to see your heroics, afraid to look further in case they come too close to your demons.” You narrow your eyes once more and once again the Pale Tree seems unfazed. 

She looks at you - _ looks through you _ \- assessing every inch of physical power -  _ staring into the darkest pits of your soul _ \- and sighs. You feel the air shift -  _ a distant power lurking in the jungle _ \-  ** _frost and ice and snow waiting in the north_ ** \- and that sense of familiarity is back. You wonder what it means but your mind can’t make sense of it.

Breaths come hard and fast.

When did you start shaking?

“Isaye.”

** _Champion._ **

“It is time to go.”

And just like that, the tension eases. You struggle to remember what just happened. You feel cold but you’re not sure why. It’s warm in the Grove.  _ Too warm _ .

“Step through the portal and join Trahearne. If you wait any longer, he may worry that you have gotten lost.”

“Of course,” you say, shaking your head. Trahearne is waiting and here you are standing around doing… _nothing?_ _No, that’s not right. What was I…?_

“Thank you for your help,” you say. 

As you step through the portal -  _ why didn’t I follow him straight away? -  _ you barely hear the Pale Tree when she says:

“I hope that you will find the strength to make it through.”


	14. We Dream of All That Could Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “The apparitions within the Dream are as real as you or I and they will seek to do us harm,” he explains.
> 
> “Have experience with that, do you?” you reply in jest.
> 
> The look on his face - half grinning, half grimacing, if you’d had to guess - tells you that he has in fact experienced this sort of thing first hand. Which you don’t find comforting in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say a big thanks to anyone who reads this! Hope you're all enjoying it so far

“Are you alright, Isaye? You look a little pale.” Trahearne inspects you from head to toe, concern etched into his features, but you shrug him off.

“Must’ve been the portal,” you mutter.

“Hmm. It can be very disorienting. Especially when it is your first time walking through the Dream.”

He places a hand gently on your shoulder, squeezes slightly as a gesture of reassurance, and even offers you a small smile. You pat his hand a couple of times - _ I’m here, I’m alright _ \- and smile back.

“We best be on our way. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can retake Claw Island,” you say.

He nods, turns, and begins to lead the way down one of Orr’s winding paths. Almost as if he knows where he’s going, though you have a sneaking suspicion that he’s being led.

“They say that Orr was once beautiful,” he recalls as you catch up. The two of you take in the sights - Trahearne as a naturally curious historian and you as a human trying to soak in all the history your people have lost.

“The first kingdom of humanity, it’s people favoured by the gods,” you recite, a sad smile on your face. Nasira had told you that as a part of a story her father used to tell. A piece of history.

You blink, forcing the tears away before they fall.

“Where are we, exactly?” You ask, distracting yourself by taking in your surroundings. Dirt and sand mixing at your feet. You can hear the distant  _ swish _ of water, tides pushing and pulling against the ground. Ruins stand off to the side, crumbling with age and a lack of proper maintenance, but no less grandiose to you in such a state.

“If I had to guess, I would say the Cursed Shore. The few reports we have managed to gather from scouts willing to venture that far into Orr often described a similar landscape to the one we are seeing now.”

“Trahearne, I didn’t know you were a guessing man.”

He tilts his head, yellow eyes glowing, a stark contrast to his dark green skin. The corners of his lips pull upwards slightly.

“There is a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Then tell me something.”

You hear the soft ‘hmm’, see his features morph into a look of concentration. The two of you keep wandering along the path, eerily quiet, until finally Trahearne speaks up once more.

“I was born in the Cycle of Dusk. My wyld hunt is to reverse the corruption inflicted upon Orr. It’s why I’ve dedicated my life to finding all I can about Orr and the Risen.”

“Two questions,” you say, almost as if you’re asking for permission. Trahearne nods, a silent  _ ask away _ . “What do you mean by ‘Cycle of Dusk’? Were you just born in the evening?”

He chuckles. “I suppose that is a rather simple way of putting it. To the sylvari, it means that you are born between noon and the setting of the sun.”

“Seems a little complicated to me. Why not just say you were born in the evening?”

“It defines us. Those of the Cycle of Dusk are intelligent and philosophical. For the Cycle of Noon, they are fierce and physically strong. Dawn, diplomatic and compassionate. And Night, they are private and self-contained. This is not always the case, but most sylvari are defined by the Cycle in which they are born.”

“Hmm,” you reply, digesting the information. 

“Your second question?”

You’re about to ask, mouth part way open, but something catches your attention to your left. Movement. Slow, erratic.

Trahearne must see it too. He summons a couple of his minions, rising from shadows silently. You draw your longsword from its sheath. The two of you crouch low and wait.

Aimlessly wandering in your direction is a group of five risen. There’s a shimmer about them, as if they aren’t quite real, but they still look corporeal enough from where you’re standing. 

“Shall we?” You whisper. Trahearne nods.

The two of you attack in tandem. You charge forwards, instantly gaining the attention of all five risen, ready to strike as soon as you get in range.

Trahearne shoots out a bolt of necrotic damage as you near them, striking the one closest square in the chest. You take the opportunity to slash at it, gauging straight through the wound it acquired mere seconds ago, and the corpse crumples to the floor.

With one down, Trahearne shifts his focus. He directs his minions to attack one risen each, those on the fringes that he can try to lure away from you to give you space. His plan works and the two risen mindlessly follow their targets with a gargled roar.

You focus on the other two risen still in front of you, trying to swipe at your armour and find purchase or a way through to wound you. You deflect and dodge their attacks, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. One of them swings for your head and you expertly dodge under its arm. As you go, you slice your sword across its stomach, cutting deep and spraying unnatural looking blood outwards. It’s not quite enough to take it down, but the risen is slow and before it has the chance to turn you use your momentum to swing around and down across its back. This time it falls.

The other risen, spurred on by the death of its companion, manages to catch you on the chin with clawed fingers. You hiss, pain sparking briefly, but the adrenaline pushes you onwards. It tries for a second time to claw at your face, but you’re more prepared and manage to dart backwards just out of reach. Its own momentum carries it forwards. With the risen caught off balance, you lunge, sword plunging straight through the risen’s stomach with little resistance. 

It jerks once - lashing out over your shoulder but unable to scratch anything but your armoured back - then again, before going still. You shove the risen off your blade before surveying the battlefield.

Just in time to see Trahearne finish off the last risen with a bolt of magic.

You sheath your sword, happy that the danger has passed for now, and swipe your right hand across your chin. It comes back a little bloody and you can still feel the sting from where the risen’s claws had broken skin, but the wound seems minor.

“Want me to heal that?” Trahearne asks, assessing the wound himself from a couple of feet away.

“No point. Save your magic, just in case.”

Although he looks displeased by your answer, Trahearne doesn’t push the offer.

Before you have the chance to continue along the path, a familiar voice calls out to you both.

“You fought well. These creatures are copies of the ones in Orr. All of their strengths, their prowess, was true to how they would fight outside of the Dream.”

You turn around to face the Pale Tree. She looks exactly the same as she did outside of the Dream, but you don’t feel that unnatural, unexplainable sickness that you did when you were in the Grove.

“Tougher than the ones at Claw Island,” Trahearne responds, unfazed by the appearance of his mother. “How will we defeat them?”

“Alone, you cannot. They would swarm you in an instant.”

“How pleasant,” you mutter. You would like to say that no matter how many risen sought to take your life, you would strike down each and every one of them. But you remember Claw Island, remember the lives taken from you because of overconfidence, and the thought makes you sick.

“Unity is the key. Together, the risen will fall to your blades. Together, you may achieve the impossible. Look,” the Pale Tree says. She raises an arm, pointing to a settlement you hadn’t seen before.

There are figures standing in the center of the settlement -  _ tens, hundreds? _ \- too many to count. The three of you walk forward. The Pale Tree with purpose, you and Trahearne with a sense of curiosity and awe.

Standing in front of the crowd, you see a lone figure. A sylvari, one you recognise almost instantly.  _ Trahearne? _

“Defenders of Tyria!” The vision of Trahearne calls. The other figures -  _ visions, _ you think absently - all stand to attention. The real Trahearne watches in bewilderment.

“When Zhaitan rose from slumber, the dragon found a long-dead nation and claimed it. The dragon expected the rest of Tyria to be just as easily conquered. but we live, and we breathe, and we fight!”

The visions roar and cheer. Trahearne turns to the Pale Tree, a million questions running through his mind. 

“You are the catalyst, my son. When all seems lost, you will bring the people together. Under one banner -  _ your banner _ \- the people of Tyria will claim victory.”

“I-- I’m not a general, mother. I’m not a leader. I don’t understand--”

She smiles, small and soft, filled with nothing but love. “You must be what Tyria needs you to be. They require a leader and you shall step up to the mantle.”

Trahearne shakes his head, gestures at you frantically.

“Isaye is a leader. She can unite Tyria - she can lead them to victory!”

“No…” you say, so soft you almost surprise yourself.

Trahearne looks to you, eyes wide and pleading. He looks terrified.

“I can lead them into battle. But I can’t unite them beforehand. I can lend you my strength and my courage, but my voice would not be enough. I could promise them vengeance, but you can promise them more. You can give them hope of something better. When the dust settles and Zhaitan is dead, you can  _ rebuild Orr _ . It’s what you were destined to do.”

He stares at you, eyes still wide. You place your hands on his shoulders, tugging him a little closer. He doesn’t resist the forced movement.

“I’ve never led a movement like this before, Isaye. I’ve helped train sylvari. I’ve taught them how to think for themselves and how to fight. But this? This is so much bigger than I could have thought.”

“That’s why I’m here,” you say, glancing at the Pale Tree briefly. The soft smile she sends your way is enough encouragement for you to continue. “You rally the people and give them hope. I’ll lead them into the fight of their lives.”

Trahearne chuckles softly at that. He looks a little less scared and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. You can’t quite place it, but if you had to guess, you’d say it was a sparkle of determination.

“It’s like the Pale Tree said. Together, we can do the impossible - even kill a dragon.”

You smile at him, wide and bright. He contemplates your words, looks to his mother for reassurance and must find it, because when he looks back to you his own small smile has turned into a grin.

“Yes. Zhaitan will fall.”

“Unifying Tyria is not the only task at hand,” the Pale Tree says suddenly. You both turn to face her, brows furrowed. 

“Because we must cleanse Orr?” Trahearne asks. 

“Yes. But you must also gather allies in places you never thought to look. Destiny’s Edge must be reunited in the face of Zhaitan.”

“Destiny’s Edge...” you say, questioning what you had heard. “What can five people do against a dragon that we can’t?”

“It is not what skills you lack, rather what Destiny’s Edge can bring to the fight. Five people can make all the difference between a grave loss and an epic victory.”

The Dream shifts. Where once a crowd of soldiers stood, cheering their unlikely leader, now stand shadows of former legends. 

Even though you’ve never met any of them in person, you can guess exactly who they are. 

Off to the left, a norn and an asura stand together. The norn -  _ Eir Stegalkin _ , you presume - refuses to look the asura -  _ Zojja _ \- in the eye.

“Snaff trusted you! You told him we would win, you told him that you would keep him safe, and you failed him!” the vision of Zojja shouts, tears in her eyes. 

You shift uncomfortably on the spot, mirroring the exact movement Eir makes. It makes your skin crawl to even slightly think of how many people could level an all too similar accusation at you.

“I tried to keep him out of danger, Zojja. I would have given anything to prevent his death,” Eir says. A whisper on the wind. Where Zojja is a white hot rage, the vision of Eir is nothing but calm -  _ more than likely guilt stricken. _

“Anything? Then maybe you should’ve died instead! Or is your life worth more than his was?”

“I can’t imagine the choice she had to make, how hard it must’ve been for her,” Trahearne says. As he speaks, the voices of Eir and Zojja seem to fade away, silence settling over your group once more.

“She took a chance,” you reply. “And it backfired on her.”

You feel sick. Would you have done the same? Risked everything, even knowing you were underprepared, knowing the plan had fallen through, on the off chance that it still worked out. You’ve read the reports from the Priory - of all the dragons Kralkatorric has been the least active since it’s awakening - so their plan  _ did  _ work. Just not the way they wanted it to. Does it matter that one life was lost? In the grand scheme of things, was injuring the dragon not worth the death it caused?

You catch Trahearne watching you, so lost in thought that you’d almost forgotten where you were.

“Isaye?” he asks.  _ Are you alright? _ goes unspoken.

You open your mouth to respond but it’s drowned out by more voices - low and shouting. Off to your right.

“Where were you Logan? We needed you!” the charr -  _ Rytlock _ \- growls out. If the legends are anything to go by, the picture the vision paints of him - an angry, looming figure - is spot on.

Face to face with the charr, the vision of Logan somehow manages to hold his ground.

“My queen needed me! Someone was going to die, no matter what I did! I made a choice - not just for me, but for my people.”

“Your people? You mean the humans who so readily cast you aside?”

“You know what I mean, Rytlock. If it came down to a choice - Snaff or the charr - we all know what choice you’d make!”

“I would never leave my friends behind! And if you really think that after Snaff’s death, after  _ all that screaming _ , that I’d ever choose to leave  _ Snaff _ behind, then you’re damn well mistaken.”

The visions of Logan and Rytlock keep talking, but just like before, with Eir and Zojja, the words fade away. From shouting, to whispers. Before they fade entirely, you think you hear the vague growl of Rytlock - “do you think  _ she _ would’ve run back to her queen?” - and see them glance in your direction, but the moment passes.

_ I’ve never met these people before _ , you think, mind racing.  _ Rytlock would never know to ask that question _ . It must’ve been a trick of the Dream.

“What exactly is this? We know they all have unresolved grievances with each other. Why show us something we already know?” you demand, turning to face the Pale Tree.

But it is just you and Trahearne in this little pocket of the Dream, surrounded by shadows and visions.

“I think…” Trahearne starts, but another conversation starts up. This time the voices come from behind you.

Soft yet aggravated all the same.

You turn to watch, coming face to face with two sylvari. 

“Why can’t they understand that the dragons are more important?” one of them asks -  _ Caithe _ , you realise. You don’t recognise the other sylvari at all. Trahearne bristles at your side though, so whoever it is, they must be dangerous.

“They are fools, dearheart. They would throw away everything for the sake of one last argument,” the other sylvari practically purrs. It sets you on edge. The instinctual reaction it causes has you reaching for your sword, but Trahearne steadies your arm.

Both visions catch your movement and turn to glare in your direction.

_ It’s not real _ , you think, but your hand still hovers above the hilt of your blade. Trahearne tenses beside you, the hand gripping your arm tightening its grasp.

“You will see, brother dear. None of them can be trusted to do what needs to be done. Not even  _ Commander Caldoran _ .”

Your eyes widen instantly.  _ What… _ you go to say, but the words don’t form and just as soon as the strange sylvari has finished speaking, the visions vanish completely.

“What was that?” you growl out. “Better yet, who was that? And why did she call me ‘commander’?”

“That was Faolain. The Grand Duchess of the Nightmare Court,” Trahearne says through gritted teeth.

“The Nightmare Court…?”

“Those who have fallen to the Nightmare. The opposite of everything the Dream stands for. Faolain has tried on many occasions to get Caithe to fall to it.”

“Why?”

“Faolain believes she has every right to claim Caithe as her own. They were lovers long before the Nightmare Court ever existed, but its creation caused a rift between them. Caithe chose the dream, Faolain did not.”

_ Oh, _ you think. “Would Caithe ever fall willingly?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Trahearne neglects to actually answer your question. Which is itself an answer.

_ Would you fall to darkness out of love? _ you think. Then immediately shake your head. It’s not that you don’t want to think about it -  _ you know the answer _ \- you just don’t want to  _ admit _ to it.

“These conversations represent possible futures. Should Destiny's Edge not resolve their quarrels, all will be lost,” the Pale Tree interjects, appearing in the Dream once more.

“How do we unite them?” Trahearne asks.

“Reach out to your friends. You have met many travellers on your journey, my son. There are those with connections to each member of Destiny’s Edge.”

“Sigrún and her guild?”

“Yes. Reach out to them and they shall unite Destiny’s Edge. Then, you and Isaye can focus on the true goal.”

“Slaying Zhaitan and cleansing Orr. Got it. Why show us this if you were never going to ask us to unite Destiny’s Edge ourselves?” you ask.

“To show you what could be - both for Destiny’s Edge, and for yourselves.”

“And what exactly does that cryptic message mean?”

The Pale Tree glances at you, something akin to annoyance marring her otherwise neutral expression. “I hope - for your sakes - that you need never know the answer to that question.”

Then she disappears, the scenery changing in her absence once more. The vast outside is replaced with dreary, ruined blue-grey walls. Stones crumbling. Zhaitan’s corruption oozes through the chamber like a parasite.

Stones - grey and barely two feet tall, stick out of the ground at odd angles. Each one is in a different stage of ruin. A thick fog lies behind you, no doubt a part of the Dream that hasn’t formed, whilst the chamber continues on in front of you, leading to some sort of memorial. There’s only one way for the two of you to go, so with only one option you venture further into the chamber.

“Who’s Sigrun?” you ask, filling the silence. It’s eerie here. Unlike the rest of Orr this chamber seems almost peaceful.

“A friend. We met whilst I was passing through Hoelbrak. She got me out of a few less than savoury situations, then took me to celebrate our adventures with a few rounds of drinking.”

“Hah, never took you for much of a drinker.”

“I’m not,” he says, grimacing. You laugh at his expense, wondering what antics he got up to that have soured his memory of that night. “She looked up to Eir,” he continues, pointedly ignoring your laughing, cheeks brightening just a shade from his normal dark green tone. “And Eir became a sort of mentor to her. She’ll no doubt have a vested interest in reuniting Destiny’s Edge if it means helping to placate some of Eir’s guilt.”

“Good. Anyone else that can help out with the others?”

“Sigrun’s guild has become quite renown recently and last I recall it was filled with a few charr, sylvari, humans and asura.”

“You’re hoping some of them have connections to the others then?”

“Precisely. Though, if you don’t mind me asking, is it possible that you’ve already met Logan?”

“Unfortunately not,” you sigh. You never had a reason to mix with the Seraph back in Divinity’s Reach. If anything, you avoided them more than you avoided the Shining Blade.

He doesn’t push you to say anything further. Simply nods, accepting of your answer.

The two of you stop when you finally reach the memorial.  _ More of a shrine, really, _ you think, inspecting the handiwork. It’s old, but not as old as the tombstones scattered around the chamber. Whoever crafted it worked with a large amount of respect for the person who’s shrine it is. You want to wander a bit closer, but there’s a high pitch ringing coming from  _ somewhere _ and suddenly magic bursts from the ground behind you and Trahearne, a foul creature rising from the source.

“What the--” you say, rolling to the side just as a flash of magic strikes out in your direction. It scorches the ground where you were just stood and you watch in horror as Zhaitan’s corruption slowly begins to creep out from that spot.

Trahearne skirts around the edges of the room, hesitantly summoning his necrotic minions. Fortunately for him, the creature seems to be focused on you.

If you can even call it a  _ creature _ .

The bulging, scarlet eye with a slitted pupil is the first thing you see. It’s hard to miss being at the very center of the creature’s being. Black tendrils shift below the eye, like it’s holding the eye itself in place. They stretch down towards the floor and the ends of the tendrils drift haphazardly along the ground. Dark blue structures arc up and around the top of the eye. A halo made from bone.

Despite it’s large size - it stands twice as tall as yourself - it’s attacks are quick and unrelenting. Magic beams of purple and blue and green strike again and again and you struggle to dodge. It burns your skin even being near the beams of magic and too many times now you’ve been caught far too close to them.

Trahearne’s minions are having more luck than you are against the creature. The sap the magic from it, slowing its attacks ever so slightly, but it’s not quick enough for your liking. Trahearne himself even manages to get a few hits in, the shadowy axe in his hand cutting marks into bone and slashing off thin slivers of tendrils.

But the gods damned thing seems attached to you.

Then your foot catches a stone jutting out of the floor, so focused on trying to dodge the creature’s onslaught that you weren’t focusing on your surroundings.  _ A rookie mistake _ . You manage to stop your fall, but all too late you see the beam of magic swirling your way, an angry, twisted purple.

You almost drop down into a roll before it hits you.  _ Almost. _

The beam ends up hitting you square in the shoulder. The force of the beam is enough to sweep you off your feet. You fly back a few feet, crashing into multiple tombstones before you finally land face down on the cold, hard ground.

“Fuck…” you say, coughing up blood. You spit flecks onto the floor, plant your hands on the ground and shove upwards, getting ready to stand up, but another blast hits your side and sends you flying once more.

Not as far this time and you come to a stop in front of the first tombstone you hit.

Every muscle and bone in your body aches with a dull, throbbing pain.

** _Get up_ ** . A voice whispers. Cold. Distant.

_ Fuck you _ , you think back at it.  _ Fuck you and fuck this gods damned beast _ . 

Another beam shoots your way.

Your magic flares outwards first. A bright, brilliant sapphire wave of guardian’s fire. It burns through the creature’s beam, catches the beast as it tries and fails to move away, flames latching on to tendrils and bones alike.

It’s enough of a distraction that Trahearne can carve his axe clean through the center of the eye, slicing it in two.

The creature drops. It’s magic fades away. Out of the ground you expect the corruption to start growing, but you’re pleasantly surprised to see a spirit take the creature’s place. Trahearne is at your side in an instant, magic flaring to life in his hands as he presses them gently to your wounds. “I suppose you were right in advising me to save my magic ‘just in case’,” he says with a smile. It sends you into a fit of laughing and coughing ungraciously.

“You have done well to defeat such a vile creature here. But it’s power is far beyond that of what the Dream can conjure,” the spirit says, hovering regally above you and Trahearne. Your eyes widen. The human figure is impossibly familiar to you. Bedtime stories of Orr and kingdoms lost flash through your mind.

“You’re the last king of Orr. You-- You’re King Reza…” you whisper.

“I am. To see my nation enslaved is a tragedy. It lies beneath the sea and it’s people are mindless in death. Tell me, why have you ventured here, to this forgotten place? What do you seek?”

“We came to fight Zhaitan. Or rather, we will. In the future,” Trahearne clarifies, half watching the spirit with awe and half focused on healing the remainder of your wounds. “We also seek to cleanse Orr - free it from Zhaitan’s corruption.”

“Zhaitan’s death will not heal the wounds the dragon has left upon this place. To save Orr, you must first cleanse the source.”

“The source?” Trahearne asks, but the spirit fades, his words echoing around you.

“Seek the source. Cleanse Orr…”

There’s a moment of brief calm. Then you’re being pulled away from the royal tomb, out of Orr,  _ out of the Dream _ and back to reality.

Trahearne helps you into a sitting position once you’ve both gained your bearings. You take note of the bright and vibrant colours - greens and yellows, reds and blues - that signify your return to the Grove.

The Pale Tree stands above you, tall and proud. She smiles down at the two of you.

“Well done, my son. Well done, Isaye. But the trials you faced within the Dream are only a fraction of what you face in Orr.”

She holds out a hand to Trahearne. He takes it, allowing the Pale Tree to pull him up into a standing position. Then she draws a blade, unlike any you’ve ever seen.

“Once before, I gave this sword to a beloved son. Now I pass it onto you. Bear Caladbolg with honour and it shall never fail you.” She holds out the sword to Trahearne, who in turn shyly takes it into his own hands. He tests the weight,  _ unfamiliar with it, _ you think, before bowing to the Pale Tree.

“Thank you, mother. I-- I shall wield it with every ounce of honour in my soul.”

“Good,” she says softly, then turns to you. She extends a hand - an offer to help you up, but you rise on your own accord, trying your best not to wince. “Isaye. Though I have no physical items to offer you, I will bestow upon you this gift of knowledge. Zhaitan seeks to cripple its foes before they have a chance to strike and so the dragon sends his forces to the heart of your Order.”

“My-- what? How could that be?”

“Those corrupted by the dragon reveal everything to their master. Nothing is hidden to him, least of all the places where his enemies hide.”

“You call this a gift, but you’re telling me that my friends -  _ my family _ \- are in danger? What kind of sick, twisted--”

“Isaye!”

“Listen, child. The dragons forces have yet to reach your Order. You have time. This is my gift. You can  _ warn them of the danger _ and fight against it.”

“I…” you pause, words dying in your throat. The Pale Tree looks at you with that same look in her eyes, the one that you can vaguely remember seeing before you entered the Dream. But in a flash it is gone. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the thought that  _ maybe _ the Pale Tree isn’t trustworthy. “You’re right. Thank you. Trahearne, will you accompany me to the Priory? We could use any and all help you’re willing to offer.”

“Of course. Our fates are bound together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More OCs? In my guild wars fic? It's more likely than you think!
> 
> (I'll probably end up writing some tie in stories for the whole Destiny's Edge reunion stuff, but that'll be in the future and probably after I've finished this fic)


	15. Why do you fight like you’re running out of time?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> Trahearne looks to you, eyes wide and pleading. He looks terrified.
> 
> “I can lead them into battle. But I can’t unite them beforehand. I can lend you my strength and my courage, but my voice would not be enough. I could promise them vengeance, but you can promise them more. You can give them hope of something better. When the dust settles and Zhaitan is dead, you can rebuild Orr . It’s what you were destined to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Been a while - I thought the quarentine would make my writing more productive, but boy was I wrong. Balancing working from home with everything else took a lot of getting used to.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!

You expect Trahearne to guide you back to the asura gate so that you can make the long journey back to the Durmand Priory, but he takes you to a nearby waypoint instead. You’ve never used one, never needed to, and the idea of using one now to travel makes you queasy.

“Do you remember the coordinates for the Priory waypoint?” he asks, glancing back at you expectantly. 

“I-- yes. I think. I don’t really use them all that often…”

Trahearne hums and gestures to the control panel by the waypoint. It takes you a couple of tries but you manage to tap in the right code - or at least you  _ hope  _ it’s the right code. It could take you anywhere.

_ Best not to think about that _ . 

“Shall we?” you say a little meekly. Trahearne must sense your unease because he holds out a hand and smiles warmly at you.

“Lets,” he says. The moment you grab his hand he tugs you into the waypoint. There’s a moment of fleeting panic, followed by a flash of light. When you’re dragged out of the other end of it you find yourself in the entrance to the Priory. 

Trahearne drops your hand a second later. You take a cautious step forward and almost fall, disoriented after your first use of a waypoint.

“Is it always like that?” you ask, feeling as those your stomach is currently doing flips. 

“Not always. I’ve heard that some people react worse than others to being pulled along the leylines.”

“Grand,” you mutter. Trahearne glances back at you from over his shoulder, barely hiding the grin.

“Maybe you just need to get used to it?”

“I’d rather not.”

He laughs. Then the two of you actually take note of the panic happening around you. 

“You’re lucky you made it through, Magister!” someone calls out as they rush past and enter something into the control panel of the waypoint. You watch the light emanating from it with thinly veiled curiosity as it flickers for a moment and turns from a pale blue to a vibrant amber.

Trahearne nudges you, garnering your attention once more.

“Looks like we made it just in time then,” he says and points towards the steps leading up to the entrance. You notice the risen as they clamber up the steps, lurching ever closer. Then you look past them, over towards the bridge, and you swear your heart stops beating. 

There’s a horde of them crossing the bridge. Hundreds. Thousands maybe? They line the mountain passes across the way. You look down and can see them in the valley below. They attack travellers and soldiers alike, sparing no mercy for any of the living.

A growl escapes your throat at the sight. Low. Feral.

You draw your longsword and stride towards the steps, deftly sidestepping the Priory members who are running towards the entrance, seeking sanctuary. Trahearne falls into step next to you, drawing Caladbolg. He tests the weight of the sword in his hand, face twisting into uncertainty. 

“You don’t have to use it, you know,” you say, offering a smile in spite of everything. 

“I know, but--” 

A risen leaps for the two of you, past the Priory explorer that was defending the stairs. The explorer cries out, turning his attention to the risen that had escaped his grasp, only to be swiped at from the other risen still climbing the stairs.

You strike swiftly - these risen are nothing compared to those you had faced in the Dream version of Orr - and the risen crumples to the ground, blackened blood oozing out of the wound on its chest. With that taken care of, you leap forward, attacking the risen currently harming the explorer. It notices you too late, turning to slash at you with a clawed hand just as your sword slices straight through its neck. Its body continues surging forward, though lacking in the ferocity it had previously moved with, and you watch as its head lulls to the side and falls, completely lacking that momentum. 

“I-- thank you,” the explorer says with a grimace, holding his side. You glance down at the wound, noticing the blood staining fabric and pooling between his fingers as he tries to stop the bleeding.

“Go find a healer,” you order, eyes meeting the explorer’s as you glance back up. His eyes widen briefly, then narrow with a glimmer of determination as he nods and runs off towards the Priory’s inner sanctum.

“That was impressive,” Trahearne says as you cut down another risen nearing the top of the stairs. He waves a hand, summons his minions to his side.

“You’ve seen me kill risen before Trahearne.”

“I meant your interaction with the explorer,” Trahearne clarifies, swinging his sword in a wide arc to cut down another risen as the two of you descend the stairs. “He didn’t even question or argue with you.”

You glance back his way, brows furrowed in confusion.

“You looked every bit the commander mother thinks you’ll be.”

At that, you look away, a small blush rising to your cheeks. “I’m just good at giving orders,” you reply quickly. Suddenly taking the stairs feels too slow. You chance a look over the edge of the stairs and a good fifteen feet below you can see a group of risen. They haven’t noticed you yet, too busy focusing on the stairs and trying to clamber up them in as orderly a fashion risen can.

“Make sure they can’t reach the entrance,” you say.  _ It’s not that far, _ you think, judging the distance.  _ Definitely jumped from higher when I was younger _ .

“What are you--” but you don’t give him the chance to reply. 

You jump off of the steps, aiming roughly for the middle of the group of risen below. 

“Isaye!” Trahearne calls after you, but his protests fall on deaf ears.

You summon up magic to protect you, a shinning sapphire aura surrounding your entire body. You brace for impact. Raise your sword above your head. When you’re close enough -  _ falling too fast - _ you strike downwards, a wave of magic bursting out from your sword as it strikes the ground. Blue fire dances across the risen, burning those closest to you to a crisp. The others that weren’t quite as close to the center are forced off of their feet and singed as the flames lick at their skin. You let out a shaky breath and chance a glance up at Trahearne.

He looks down at you, partly amused and partly horrified.

“You have a death wish!” He shouts, concerned, then turns to fight the risen trying to catch him off guard.

_ I know _ , you think dryly. 

The risen around you recover, clambering to their feet with jarring, mechanical movements.  _ They’re injured. Good. _

They don’t afford you the luxury of fighting one on one. The first three that clamber to their feet all rush you at the same time. One of them from the left, two from the right. You quickly count the number of risen still on the ground - _ six _ \- before focusing on the ones attacking. You allow the one on your left to get a glancing swipe in at your back, striking steel armour, in order to slash across the stomach and chest of the two to your right. They stagger. The one you’d struck across the chest falls, but the other comes back around to take a swipe at your face.

You duck under its arm, using your momentum to swing your sword across its stomach once more. The force of it sends blood spilling across the snow. Much to your dismay you end up with a few specks splattered across your forehead and right cheek.

The other risen follows you, angered by the fall of its allies, swiping twice across your back and once again clanging against steel. You roll out of its grasp before it can get in another hit, feeling a tinge of pain in your back.  _ Old wounds _ , you think with a grimace.

Glancing around you see three more risen have made it to their feet. Luckily, with the direction you’d rolled in, they’ve all ended up in front of you.

The risen that has already attacked you doesn’t relent, leaping at you with its mouth wide, fanged teeth glinting in the sunlight. You plant your feet on the ground and swing upwards. You slice a deadly wound from its groin all the way up to its neck, stopping just below the left side of its jaw. It jerks forward, still tries to go for the bite as it falls, but you sidestep out of the way. There’s a dull  _ thud _ as it lands face down in the snow.

Unfortunately, as you turn back to face the other risen, you realise that all six of them are now standing.

“Shit,” you mutter, magic flaring in your left hand. You slam it on the ground, falling into a kneeling position. Blue runes flare to life, melting the surrounding snow. For a moment the risen just watch, waiting to get a sense of the danger, but they must deem what you’ve done to not be a threat because they surge forward.

As they move, you stand back, holding your longsword behind you with one hand, magic once again gathering in your left. You flick your arm out to your left, extending your fingers as you do so from a fist to an open palm, summoning a ghostly bow from the magic that flies from your fingertips. It takes a couple of seconds for the bow to fully form. The risen don’t notice, or don’t care for its presence at all, because they keep rushing forward. Straight at you.

You grin as the first risen steps onto the runes. 

Fire bursts upwards from the ground, the signature bright blue colour of your guardian magic. It burns the first risen so fiercely that it screams; a horrid, haunting sound that will stay with you as you watch it twist and flail helplessly. The next two risen enter the flames as well, too slow to catch on to the trap, and screech as their muscles seize up. The flames dance around you, warm to the touch rather than scorching, acting as a shield.

The other three risen stop just before they reach the fire. They growl, starting to search for a way around, but you’re encased in a wall of flame. The bow to your left notches an arrow, string pulling taught as if an invisible spirit is drawing it, then releases. The arrow buries itself in the forehead of the risen closest to the bow.

You don’t watch that risen fall. You lash out to the right, slashing across the thigh of one of the risen, baiting them towards you as you leave the ground hallowed with guardian fire. Your spirit bow finishes the job on the risen you’d attack, striking it through the heart - or rather, where it’s heart would have been - allowing you to dodge around it’s attack with ease and charge the last risen. 

Your sword is ablaze as it cuts the last risen in half at the waist.

Breathing heavily, you turn your attention to the bridge. There are a number of Priory members defending it, but they’re outnumbered. You have to do something and quickly before you’re all overrun.

“Isaye?” Someone calls from the bridge, glancing back your way.

“Lleu!” You shout, ignoring the ache in your muscles and charging straight towards your friend. You make it just in time to deflect a blow from a particularly large risen, one which no doubt would have knocked Lleu to the ground. “You alright?”

“I am now,” he says with a smile.

Happy with his answer, you focus on the larger risen. You drive your sword through its stomach easily enough, the risen too large to dodge, but it latches onto the steel of your blade and punches you straight across the face.

You’re knocked to the ground temporarily, head spinning. Angrily you spit blood to the ground. Your nose is stinging and you can taste the blood on your lips as it rushes down and over them. You think you might have also bitten your cheek or tongue, but you can’t be sure. It’s not painful enough right now in the midst of all the adrenaline coursing through your veins for you to take the time to assess it properly.

it takes you a moment to stand up, but it doesn’t matter. Lleu finishes the job, striking so quickly with his daggers that the larger risen never stood a chance in its injured form. He pulls your sword from its stomach, struggling a little from the effort, then hands it back to you.

“Try not to lose this again,” he says. You notice the corners of his lips turn upwards as he speaks.

“Hah, I’ll try not to,” you chuckle, running a free hand through your sweat laden hair. “Where’s Gixx?”

“Further up on the bridge. They caught us by surprise. By the time we even noticed, they were already across and ready to march through the entrance.”

“Did any make it in?”

“No, we managed to push them back here, but some of them are finding ways around our forces on the bridge.”

You frown, surveying the battlefield while you have a quiet moment to do so. You don’t spot Gixx but that isn’t surprising. He’s an asura so you would be hard pressed to find him in a normal crowd, let alone in the midst of battle.

“I have an idea,” you say. Lleu looks to you with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.  _ He thought he’d die here _ , you realise, inspecting him from head to toe. Every wound. The way his shoulders sag.  _ He thought we’d lose to the risen _ . “But we’ll need to clear the bridge.”

“That’s easier said than done.” 

“Then we call a retreat. Send up the flare.”

“They might not notice Isaye--”

“I know. If that happens, we’ll find another way.”

Lleu hesitates for a moment. Glances back towards the other members of the Priory on the bridge.

“Fire the flare, Lleu!” You’re done asking. You grab him by the collar of his leathery, Priory issued armour. He looks taken aback for a moment, maybe even a little scared, but shakes his head, then shakes you off. You think for a moment he won’t do it. Then he sheathes a dagger and unholsters one of the pistols at his side, stretches his arm upwards and fires with a loud, deafening  _ bang _ .

Magic follows the bullet into the sky, exploding part way up into a brilliant flash of red light. The Priory members on the bridge take notice and begin to fall back. Your spirit bow takes out some of the risen that try to follow and Lleu stands at your side firing shot after shot into the risen with an eerie precision. You don’t think he misses once.

Finally, as the last members of the Priory scramble off of the bridge, you spot Steward Gixx. There’s a gnarly gash across the right side of his forehead, but other than that he looks relatively okay. That’s more than you can say for the rest of them.

“Isaye--”

“No time to talk, Gixx,” you say, watching the risen surge forward.  _ No time to back down now. _

“But--”

You step forward, ready to greet the oncoming horde. There are protests behind you, no doubt from Lleu and Gixx and maybe even Trahearne, who has since joined the cluster of Priory members at your back.

_ Breathe _ .

One. Two. Three.

The risen draw closer. The shouting behind you becomes a little more frantic, but you drown it out.

You raise your sword above your head, brimming with untempered energy. You pour your heart into it as you let the magic drain out of you and into your weapon.

Four. Five. Six.

They’re almost three quarters of the way across the bridge when you drive your sword straight into the ground. 

_ BOOM. _

Silence. A shockwave shakes the ground beneath your feet causing snow to whip up into the air and float gracefully back down. An echo of a second snowfall.

Then the magic lashes out. It surges from your sword, arcing to and fro along the ground as it races across the bridge. As it closes in on the risen the flames begin to rise up from the magically forming cracks. 

_ Breathe. Focus. Guide it. _

The flames find the first wave of risen, wrapping around their feet and ankles. It snakes up their legs, their torsos, their necks, leaving dark, ugly burns in its wake. But it doesn’t stop as it engulfs the first wave. It keeps creeping onwards, to the second wave, then the third, the fourth, the fifth, all the way to the risen on the other side of the bridge. 

One by one the risen drop, legs devoured by an unwavering flame burning unnaturally hot. 

It’s not until the screaming stops that you finally let go -  _ quite literally _ \- hands dropping from the handle of your longsword. Your arms fall limply to your sides. You breathe ragged, heavy breaths. 

Your head is pounding.

Everything aches.

Someone places a hand on your shoulder. You’re not sure who. But the weight of it, no matter how gentle, makes you crumble.

Darkness greets you before you hit the ground.


	16. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perviously...
> 
> “Isaye?” Someone calls from the bridge, glancing back your way.
> 
> “Lleu!” You shout, ignoring the ache in your muscles and charging straight towards your friend. You make it just in time to deflect a blow from a particularly large risen, one which no doubt would have knocked Lleu to the ground. “You alright?”
> 
> “I am now,” he says with a smile.

For the first time in a long time you don’t dream. It’s peaceful.

You struggle to open your eyes when you wake. From disuse? Likely, who knows how long you’ve been out. Maybe tiredness? The longer you spend grimacing at the thought of having to open your eyes, the more and more you start to feel the aches and pains in every muscle. You groan. Drawn out as you exhale deeply.

Much to the surprise of your guests, apparently.

“Isaye?”

“She’s awake!”

“Quick, go inform Gixx that she’s awake!”

The noise is too much.

As is the light that’s beginning to filter through your eyelids now that you’re putting more of an effort into opening your eyes. Much to your own regret. You screw your eyes shut and groan again, shifting slightly in a half-hearted attempt to shield yourself from the light.

You don’t manage to move too far. A hand on your shoulder, gentle, covered by leather, urges you to stop moving. Not that you needed them to urge you to do so - you doubt in this state that you could even lift a finger for more than a minute.

Eventually, you peak at the room with one eye open, squinting against the light which you realise now is coming from a torch mounted on the wall.

The figures in the room are blurry. Too difficult to make out at the moment. Two of them look average height for a sylvari or a human, but they’re just dark grey stains against a warm background. The other figure is… somewhere. You can’t spot them in your immediate vicinity and you don’t care for trying to shift and look round for them.

“Take it slow, Isaye,” one of the figures says. You’re not sure which, though the voice seems to come from your left. That would make it one of the figures of average height, though maybe there’s another person in the room and even further to the left.

Your head starts to pound.  _ Best not think too much, eh? _

“You had us worried. For a moment, we thought we’d lost you,” another voice says - not as softly spoken as the first and a little deeper. From the right this time. The other figure?

You blink a few times. Afterwards, you manage to keep both eyes open, but you’re still stuck squinting in the light. The figures in the room become less blurry as time passes. You can make out the colour of their skin - a dark blue and a forest green - and eventually you spot the owner of the third and final voice. Short, asura no doubt.

_ Of course, _ you think dryly.  _ My good friends Lleu, Zakk and Trahearne. Who else would wait by my side with such concern? _ You almost laugh, but the sound dies in your throat and you end up coughing instead. The whole of your upper body shakes with each cough, pain flaring with the excess of movement.

The others try their best to help, but there’s only so much one can do to stop a cough and the damage is already done.

When the coughing fit subsides you let your head fall back onto a pillow with zero grace and no amount of effort to slow its fall.  _ Lucky someone decided to put a pillow there _ .

For a minute or two afterwards, every breath you draw is ragged. Laced with pain.

“Isaye? Do we have any water for her?” Someone -  _ Trahearne, sounds hard and analytical like him - _ asks, question open to the whole room. Except you, of course.

“Yes! Somewhere--” a higher pitched voice replies, a little nasal-y.  _ Definitely Zakk _ . “Here!”

You wince, his voice far too close to your ear and far too loud for your liking.

“Sorry…” he says, a little softer and quieter this time.

You grunt in response. There’s not much else you can do to answer really. You’ve closed your eyes again. They feel heavy again.

Something cold and metal is pressed to your lips.

“You remember how to drink right?”

_ I’m injured, not dead you lousy ass  _ is what you think - what you  _ want _ to say, but you settle for another grunt.

The metal is tilted and water spills from the container across your lips. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, to realise what exactly is going on, but once it does it reacts on instinct.  _ How long has it been since I last drank something? Anything? _ You gulp at the water like your life depends on it, not caring for the spillages that trickle down your neck. 

When Zakk finally pulls the container away, you gulp down the final dregs left in your mouth and sigh shakily.

“Better?” the last voice - soft and calm,  _ Lleu _ \- asks.

“Much…” you mumble, voice hoarse and cracking.

You open your eyes - a little clearer, a little more focused now, so much so that you can start to make out the finer details in the room.

“How long?” you ask. They all avoid your gaze, grimacing at the sound of your voice. 

“Four days,” Trahearne says evenly. He glances at you. You stare back.

“What?”

You bolt up. Too quickly for anyone to stop you. They try of course, hands flying out towards your shoulders to force you back down, but your shock has you moving quicker. In spite of the protesting aches of every muscle, or the agonising pain shooting through your nerve endings with the movement, you force yourself into an upright position.

Once you’re sat up you shake, teeter on the edge of nothing, your body threatening to fall either back onto the bed or off the side of it. You feel yourself going left as your shoulder tenses and a sensation flashes in it, the echo of a thousand tiny knives pricking into flesh.

You yelp, forcing yourself backwards through sheer willpower until your back hits the headboard of the bed with a hefty thump.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You grab at your shoulder with your right hand, nails digging into skin, piercing, flecks of blood oozing to the surface.

“Shit,” Zakk says, jumping back off of the bed and rushing for the door.

Lleu and Trahearne flank you, drawing magical energy into their hands. Lleu places his hand above your own, shadowy tendrils billowing across your skin before glowing a soft white. Trahearne places his hand on your other shoulder, green magic glowing bright. The pain ebbs away slowly. Your right shoulder stops throbbing, gives way to a dull ache that isn’t bothersome so long as you don’t move too much. Lleu does his best to soothe the pain in your left shoulder but the erratic stabbing pains only ease into a steady throbbing.

Your cheeks are damp. Sweat sticks to your forehead, crawls slowly over your temples. Your chest rises and falls heavily, though your breaths come out even.

“No more sudden movements, agreed?” Trahearne shoots you a look as he pulls his hand away from your shoulder, magic dissipating the instant he does. You take note of the bags under his eyes, hard to spot if it weren’t for the fact he’d had to come so close to heal you. His shoulders slump as he leans back. The teasing smile he casts your way a second later doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Agreed…” you say, glancing away. Lleu looks just as worse for wear. There are claw marks all over his body, skin still red and angry in places where the claws dug deeper. “I’ve really been out for four days?”

Lleu nods. “What you did back at the bridge - the healers think that by the end of it, you were using your own life force to power the attack. It would have been impressive, had it not been ridiculously stupid of you.”

It’s the most you ever heard Lleu say. Every word is spoken softly. It’s hand picked and woven into a sentence as though he’s practiced saying it a hundred times before. But you can hear the way his voice hitches at certain points -  _ your own life force, ridiculously stupid _ \- something hidden beneath the calm and threatening to come out. Anger.

You glance away from Lleu too, unable to meet either of the sylvari’s gazes. Concerned but scrutinising.

“How many did we lose?”

A pause. Your heart hammers in your chest.

“None.”

You raise your own gaze to look at Trahearne, confusion written across your face.  _ None? How? _

“Isaye Caldoran!” A voice booms from the hallway.

_ Shit. _

You freeze, eyes cast downwards.

Steward Gixx storms into the room, Zakk trailing behind him. He hops up onto the stool at your bedside so that he can glare at you from an equal level. 

“By the Eternal Alchemy, what were you thinking?”

“I--”

He points a finger at you, wagging it inches away from your face, silencing any attempt at replying. “You could have died! We thought you  _ had _ died! You spent that much magical energy stopping those risen that  _ your heart stopped _ !”

“I did what I had to do to save the Priory,” you say, voice weak, defense half-hearted.

“You didn’t have to  _ risk your life _ to save the Priory, Isaye! You didn’t have to be reckless! You didn’t have to act alone!”

“If I hadn’t acted then--”

“How do you think we’d cope losing you so soon after--” he stops abruptly, voice breaking a few words into the sentence.

Gixx lowers his finger. Clenches that whole hand into a fist. His mouth sets into a thin line but his bottom lip quivers. His eyes glisten as they begin to water. You want to look away from him but you can’t. You watch the first tear fall instead. Then another. And another. Until they’re streaming down his face, uncontrolled and so unlike Gixx.

_ She was his friend. She was their friend. She was their sister. _

_ You’ve been so busy drowning in your own despair that you hadn’t even thought to look at those around you and see them hurting. _

_ And the worst part is? They had stood by and let you do it. _

“I’m sorry…” you say. Your own eyes begin to water. The tears stream down your cheeks, running fresh tracks against the ones you’d shed out of pain only a few moments prior. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think--”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He interrupts. He holds your gaze, holding back a frown of his own. “You don’t think. You act. Consequences be damned…”

“Gixx…” What can you say to that? It’s who you are. Who you’ve always been. Instinct has been at the forefront of every damned decision you’ve ever made.

Of every decision  _ she _ ever made too.

“Promise me something,” he says quietly, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “Promise me you weren’t trying to die.”

The room stills. Lleu, Trahearne and Zakk all try desperately to find a spot to look at that isn’t you or Gixx. This isn’t a conversation they want to be privy to, in spite of them all likely wondering the same thing.

** _Did you want to die?_ **

** _My survivor._ **

** _My champion._ **

** _Or were you afraid of living?_ **

“No,” you say, screwing your eyes shut. To drown out the voice in your head. To stop yourself from having to look Gixx in the eyes. You don’t think you’re strong enough for that, even if you are telling the truth. “I was trying to protect them. You’re right. I don’t think sometimes. But I promise you Gixx, I wasn’t aware I was draining my own life force back on that bridge. I didn’t know, I swear! All I could think of in that moment was that I couldn’t let Zhaitan take anyone else from me.”

You open your eyes once you’ve finished speaking. Gixx looks at you, searching for something in your gaze.

** _If you want to protect, I can--_ **

_ Shut up. Fuck off. Fuck you. _

The voice stills. A cold lingers at your shoulder. 

** _You will see things my way eventually, Champion._ **

Then the cold fades.

You let out a shaky breath.

Gixx tilts his head, still inspecting.

“Gixx--”

His eyes narrow, not angry, just questioning. Whatever he finds, you’re not sure, but he sighs and leans back out of your personal space. Settles back on the stool.

“I believe you.”

“Steward?” A voice calls from the doorway - someone you don’t recognise - causing everyone to turn and face the newcomer.

“Yes, Novice?”

“She’s here. That noblewoman from Divinity’s Reach?” He says, phrases it like a question due to his own confusion at the matter. The boy - taller than a human but a good foot shorter than a norn, so you assume he must be a  _ young _ norn - looks around the room hesitantly before his gaze settles on Gixx.

Gixx sighs deeply before turning to face the young norn. “Good. Go, bring her here.”

The boy straightens up, looks around the room once more, gaze lingering on you for a moment or two longer with something akin to awe etched into his features, before he finally scurries out of the room.

“That’s one skittish norn,” Zakk says with a chuckle.

You’re inclined to agree, but something the norn had said has your brow furrowing. “Noblewoman?” you ask, because  _ it can’t be _ who you’re thinking of.

“Countess, actually,” Gixx corrects, glancing your way.

“That’s impossible.”

“She seemed very concerned when she wrote to us a few days ago.”

“We barely even--” you pause, tracking back to Gixx’s ‘a few days ago’. “What do you mean by a few days ago? And she wrote to you? Not the other way around?”

Gixx merely shakes his head. Even the others look confused.

You’re left doing mental gymnastics as Gixx refuses to answer your mounting questions. At least until the woman in question finally steps into the room, dress swaying as she goes, a shawl of fur draped over her shoulders.

“There’s no way you’re warm enough to be walking around the Shiverpeaks,” you say. 

The corners of Anise’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile. “Well, someone was kind enough to give me a shawl,” she quips, gesturing to the young norn from before. “If you would allow us a moment of privacy?” she asks the room.

Gixx huffs and gestures for the others to follow. Zakk and Lleu do so without question, glancing back at the strange woman as they go. The young norn is also quick to follow, if only because Gixx shoots him what can only be his signature stern look. You can’t tell from where you’re sitting on the bed, but you’ve been on the receiving end of it enough times to know how daunting it can be.

Trahearne is the last to leave. He waits for your signal - something that you provide in the form of a nod and a smile - before sweeping low to bow before Anise. She quirks a brow at the sylvari, who simply mutters “A pleasure to meet you, Countess,” before retiring from the room, shutting the door as he goes.

“You knew…” you say, gritting your teeth, tone accusatory though you’re not sure what for. Anise nods in response. “How did you know?”

“To say I’ve been keeping an eye on you would be an understatement.”

“Don’t dance around the question, Anise.”

She smirks, chuckles lightly. “Never been one for dancing around the subject, have you?”

She watches you tense. There’s a moment where you’re drawn back into an office, sun glaring through the windows, searing hot against steel armour. Your hand twitches for a sword that isn’t there.

“When we first met, it was on the Queen’s orders,” Anise starts, taking a seat on the stool Gixx recently vacated. “It’s not often the ministers talk about their guards with such praise, so when they do, we like to be prepared. Minister Zamon had mentioned you a few times, albeit not by name. I believe the phrase he used was ‘best damn captain I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with’.”

“I didn’t realise he thought so highly of me,” that knowledge makes you shift uncomfortably. Your stomach churns with unease.

“It came as a shock to all of us; Minister Zamon rarely dishes out praise for his guards. So Queen Jennah asked me to meet with you in order to get a sense of who you truly were.” Anise fiddles with her dress, straightening out kinks that aren’t really there.  _ She seems nervous? But that would be impossible, _ you think because you doubt Anise has ever felt nervous a day in her life.

“Did she know you were going to ask me to join the Blades?” you ask, watching intently for her reaction.

“No,” Anise replies, seemingly genuine. “I caught a glimpse of a memory in your fear. It was short and you were quick to mask that fear, but not quick enough to shut your mind in the moment.”

“You looked inside my head, unprompted?”

“You were a potential threat to the crown. I would hardly call that unprompted.”

_ Fair enough, _ you think, biting back a retort, but opting to glare at Anise for the unwanted invasion of your privacy anway. “What did you see?”

She stops fiddling with her dress then, folds her hands together and rests them on her lap. “Your first kill with the Ministry.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you think back. A burly man, brown hair greying, forced into poverty and a life of crime after the Ministry ruined his career. But he hadn’t backed down without a fight. He refused to be left out in the cold and it cost him his life. Your superior at the time told you he deserved it, that  _ he _ was the traitor, not you in your shining steel armour with the seal of the Ministry on your shoulder plate.

You’d almost believed it back then.  _ Almost _ .

“That was enough for you, was it? To try and steal me away from the Ministry?”

“Yes.”

She lets that sit for a moment as the tension in the room eases slightly. 

Anise is open, relaxed and poised as ever. Not a single fibre of her being suggests that she’s lying. But Krytan politics has always been a game of half truths, so a part of you wonders which truths she’s deciding to hide.

“After that, it was my own curiosity that forced me to keep an eye on you,” she continues, finally looking away from you for the first time since she had entered the room. “You were powerful, that much I could tell, with untapped potential hidden away. If the Ministry had kept you on their… leash--” she winces at her own words, whilst you scoff “-- then I have no doubt the Queen would have ordered me to kill you.”

You fold your arms across your chest, wincing slightly as your left shoulder protests with a bout of sharp pain.  _ As if you wouldn’t have killed me out of your own initiative first. _

She quickly glances at you, eyes locking with your own.

“Well… there was something else too,” she says slowly, having to think about the phrasing. Almost as if she had wanted to respond to something else first.

_ You heard me… _ you think. 

Anise glances away and continues speaking and your instincts scream at you to call her out.

“I… you intrigued me. The more I watched, the more curious I became. I saw your triumphs, your darkest hours. I saw you hide your pain behind confidence and a smile and wondered why you worked so hard to fight against a system you believed in. It wasn’t until I visited your family that I realised why.”

“I was protecting them,” you say. 

Anise looks at you with a fond smile. It turns sour a second later.

“I tried to save them. But I prioritised you that night. Getting you out of Divinity’s Reach and away from harm. By the time I got to your family, it was already too late…”

“Why?” you ask, almost choking on the word as you hold back a sob.

“I don’t know. I just knew I had to try.”

She places a hand on your right arm, rubs gentle circles into the bare skin there with her thumb. You don’t move, too afraid you’ll break. For the third time today, tears start to fall again. You thought that they had long since dried up.

“What does this have to do with anything?” You manage to say eventually. 

“That curiosity grew into concern, the night Nasira died. Far more than I had felt for anyone in a long time. When you asked me to finish it, I made a choice. To let you live and to keep an eye on you, in a way no one but a mesmer could.”

_ “I created a bond with my magic. One that ties us together, no matter the distance.” _ Anise says, but her mouth doesn’t move. Her voice echoes in your head. Soft and enchanting.  _ “If ever I were in danger, you would know. You would feel an undeniable pull willing you to return to my side.” _

“So you wanted to use me?”

_ “No.” _ An exasperated sigh escapes Anise’s lips.  _ “It works both ways, Isaye. Anytime you were in danger, I felt it. Perhaps I was wrong to create such a bond, considering the number of times your soul has called to me. But I would do the same again in a heartbeat.” _

She moves a hand to reach across and touch your left shoulder. There’s a moment, panic flashing in your eyes - _ can you hear it too? _ \- before you hastily look away. Your heart beats agonisingly loud in your chest, drumming in the silence. You can feel Anise watching you.

“Not always,” she says out loud, so quiet you barely catch it. Her hand - the one resting against your shoulder - curls into a fist. “It’s stronger than I am.”

Words fail you. You lean in to Anise, head resting against her shoulder, tension leaving your body as you do so. 

“Why would you create such a bond?” you whisper into the shawl draped across her shoulders, voice muffled slightly.

Silence stretches like an eternity before you. Then…

_ “I couldn’t bear to lose you.” _

Surely she hadn’t meant to say that?

Anise draws away from you slowly, but not completely. One hand still rests against your shoulder, the other still strokes soothing circles along your upper arm. 

_ Does she realise what she’d said? Or thought? Did she even say it? _

You chance a look at her, gazing into her eyes and willing her to respond, but she doesn’t. She just smiles back at you.

As the seconds pass her brow begins to furrow. Her smile falters slightly. Then she shakes her head and the smile is back, as though nothing had happened.

“Your soul screamed at me, four days ago. It felt like a fire, burning my chest from the inside out. Then it stopped so suddenly that I knew  _ something terrible _ had happened. I wrote to Steward Gixx as soon as I got the chance. When I got his reply I was relieved, though by that point I could  _ feel _ you through the bond again. Queen Jennah actually ordered me to come see you.”

“She-- what?”

“I know,” Anise replies, laughing. “I tried to argue with her, but she wouldn’t stand for it. She must have thought that it was… I don’t know, affecting my ability to complete my daily duties.”

_ Perhaps it was something else she caught on to _ , you think, eyeing Anise suspiciously.  _ Is that a blush? _

“So here I am,” Anise continues. 

“Here you are…” you reply, eyes searching. Still, you find nothing concrete.

“I’m glad to see you’re alive, Isaye. The world is better off with you in it.”

“I-- thank you…”

“Isaye!” Someone calls from the otherside of the door. It sounds very much like a muffled Gixx. “We’ve had a response from the Vigil - they’ve agreed to help us retake Claw Island.”

_ Oh shit… _


	17. These Friends of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “By the Eternal Alchemy, what were you thinking?”
> 
> “I--”
> 
> He points a finger at you, wagging it inches away from your face, silencing any attempt at replying. “You could have died! We thought you had died! You spent that much magical energy stopping those risen that your heart stopped !”

There’s nothing Gixx, Trahearne, anyone really, can do to stop you from clambering out of bed an hour after Gixx announces that the Vigil have agreed to help. Anise lingers for the first day, watching you train and build up your lost strength with a mixture of concern (well hidden) and disapproval. Trahearne would also be looking at you training with disapproval, but after all the time the two of you have spent together over these past few weeks, he knows better than to try and argue with your stubborn determination. So he opted to be your training partner instead. 

He doesn’t hold back.

He knocks you down a lot more times than you can count or care to admit. Everytime you fall, pain flares up, burning through every nerve. You press onwards anyway. Force yourself to stand every time you get knocked down. If the Vigil have agreed to help you retake Claw Island, then the Order of Whispers shouldn’t be too far behind them. Or so you hope.

Trahearne isn’t the only one who has agreed to help you. Zakk and Lleu are there as well and the three of them take it in turns to spar with you. It’s nice - getting knocked on your ass time and time again being the exception - because the three of them have vastly different fighting styles and you can’t fall back on your muscle memory alone in fighting them. They switch out far too often for that.

Gixx is nowhere to be seen.  _ Too busy organising the fight to retake Claw Island _ , you presume, ducking under a dagger that would’ve struck straight across your face. He disappeared an hour or so after you decided to train, so it’s also likely that he’s avoiding having to tell you off for potentially aggravating your wounds. He definitely didn’t approve when you told him you would be training in the first place.

You fall into a bit of a routine for the first day. A few practice fights, then a fifthteen minute rest - that was the only way you had gotten any of them to agree to training in the first place.

Everytime you get knocked down, Anise is by your side. It’s confusing. A part of you wonders why she’s stayed so long - the same part that still wonders why she  _ came _ in the first place, the thought of  _ I couldn’t bear to lose you _ still ringing through your head.

Another part of you is glad? Pleased to see her? It’s not just confusing, it’s jarring. Anytime you manage to catch a glimpse of Anise standing off to the side, you end up crashing to the floor, caught off guard by your opponent. 

Anise tending to you every time you fall becomes so ingrained into your training for those first few hours that the one time she doesn’t appear at your side, anxiety sparks inside you.

You look around, spotting Anise talking to Trahearne in hushed tones, and you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Anise glances up at you and you feel a familiar tug of magic at the edges of your mind. You brush it off, brush  _ her _ off, and stand back up a little shakily. Lleu sinks back into a fighting position, content now that you’re on your feet again to continue the fight, but you shake your head.

“Break?” you ask. Lleu nods and walks off to get some water.

You march towards Anise instead.

“Something wrong?” you ask as you stride up next to Trahearne.

That’s another thing you’re not used to. Being so close to Anise and  _ knowing _ about the bond you share, you can feel it so much more now. Anise probably believes she hides her emotions well. She does, really, but that’s to a world that can’t feel what’s going on inside that head of hers. Like now, as she talks to Trahearne, her face betrays nothing but the practiced and effortless grace, and the stereotypical aura of superiority that comes with being a noblewoman. But you can feel a nervous energy radiating from her.

You wonder briefly if she tries to hide that from you as well. Or if she even knows how much she’s telegraphing through the bond.  _ Or even if she can control it _ . 

“Just exchanging a few words. Nothing to be concerned about, my dear,” Anise says, voice light. Trahearne’s slightly narrowed gaze tells you that is definitely not the case, as does the aforementioned nervous energy coiling in your mind. Anise is not the person to push though. She won’t give away anything that she doesn’t want to, so your gaze lingers on Trahearne instead.  _ He’ll tell me if he thinks I should know. _

“Just a few words…” he says with a huff, glancing at you. “About you, actually. Anise asked that I look out for you at Claw Island. I told her that I would do my best, but you’re as reckless as you are stubborn so there would be no guarantees.”

There’s a spike of irritation through the bond. Clearly Anise isn’t used to people acting against her own interests in such defiance, but Trahearne is bold and can be just as stubbornly frustrating as you when the time calls for it. Anise’s concern once again confuses you,  _ because when did she become so attached to me? _ But you mask it with a grin and a lighthearted chuckle.

“Some people admire my reckless abandon,” you say.

“Name one person,” Trahearne says back, challenging. You’re about to answer but Anise interrupts with a cough.

“Trahearne, may I have a word with Isaye? In private?”

He glances at Anise, then back at you, a question in his eyes. You nod and Trahearne goes to join Lleu and Zakk by the weapons rack on the far side of the room. As he goes, he knocks a fist playfully against your right shoulder, a small smile on his face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask the instant Trahearne is out of ear shot. Anise glances at you with wide eyes for a second before they narrow and her shoulders slump. “Worried about me, Countess?”

“I have to return to Divinity’s Reach,” is all she says.

The grin slips from your features. You feel so thoroughly conflicted that you’re not sure how to respond. There’s a wave of relief, because Anise will be going back to protect the Queen and you can avoid continuously questioning what this bond means to the two of you. Then there’s a small, heavy sadness at the thought of her leaving. A little bit of anger -  _ how come you get to come here, drop such a hefty truth on me, then leave the moment things get too overwhelming? _

“Of course you do,” you say, jaw clenched slightly. Because of course, out of everything you feel, that anger wins out.  _ Everytime _ .

And then you flinch. At your own words and the harshness of them. You glance at Trahearne,  _ it’s not fair to take it out on them _ , then your gaze lowers to the floor and you sigh.

“I’m sorry… I understand, I do, it’s just--”

“A part of you prefers to be angry, because it’s easier to be angry?”

When you finally find the strength to glance back up and meet Anise’s gaze, all you see is understanding. 

“Something like that,” you mutter. “A friend in Lion’s Arch told me I should see someone about it. Talk it out.” 

Friend - you doubt that’s the word Ellen would use to describe the rocky relationship the two of you forged during your stay at the pirate’s home.

“Your friend is right.”

“I know…”

“So what’s stopping you?” Anise asks, so quietly and patiently. Like a part of her doesn’t expect you to answer and has already made her peace with your silence. She raises a hand and cups your cheek, ever so gentle, and you lean into her touch subconsciously.

“The fate of Tyria? The threat of a dragon looming overhead?” You shoot her a small smile. Anise’s first response is to roll her eyes.  _ A touch of fear. _

The moment you think that particular thought, Anise strokes her thumb across your cheek, your jaw, sliding her hand downwards to rest against your neck instead.

_ “You’re allowed to be afraid, Isaye. No one will think less of you for it.” _

You try to move away, look anywhere but in Anise’s eyes, but Anise brings her other hand up to caress the other side of your neck, holding you in place. 

_ “You shouldn’t think less of yourself because of it…” _

A moment passes in silence. You stare down at Anise in equal parts fear and frustration whilst she stares back up at you with nothing but fondness.

Then she leans up, lips ghosting across your own as she places a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“Be careful out there,” Anise whispers, breath hot against your skin, voice full of sincerity. She draws away and for a moment you struggle not to follow her. Her hands fall from your neck to rest at her sides. She gives you one last look - stares far too long at you with an adoring gaze that you end up being the first to look away. Your voice fails you. Instead, you nod, almost imperceptible, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

_ Did the others see that? _

_ “So what if they did?” _ Anise replies, voice echoing in your mind, silky smooth and teasing.

Your face feels even hotter. A quick glance over to the weapons rack lets you know that Trahearne and Lleu are seemingly too engaged in a conversation to pay you and Anise any mind. Zakk, on the other hand, swiftly averts his gaze when your gaze falls on him. It’s enough, knowing that  _ at least _ Zakk caught the two of you and  _ whatever _ that was, for you to turn your gaze back on Anise, slightly narrowed.

_ You’re terrible,  _ you think. Anise laughs, eyes bright and smile wide, as she turns to leave.

“I look forward to hearing about your future triumph over the dragon,” she calls back confidently over her shoulder. 

You bite back the chance to call back to her, the words dying in your throat. Instead, you think, telegraphing your own thoughts so obviously that you know without a doubt there is no way Anise won’t pick up on it.

_ Be careful, Countess. Or people might begin to suspect you care. _

There’s a second - no, less than a second - where Anise pauses at the door, falters in her ever graceful step. Had you not been watching her leave, focused solely on  _ her _ , you wouldn’t have noticed. Then she keeps walking. The clack of her heels gradually fades. Then, at the point where you can only hear the lingering whisper of her heels on the floor, you hear the faintest  _ “Those people may not be wrong” _ .

You intake a sharp, quick breath and _oh._ _Okay then._

You’re jolted out of your thoughts a minute later. Trahearne, Lleu and Zakk have gathered around you, looks of concern plastered across their faces.

“Are you alright, Isaye?” Trahearne asks, glancing quickly at the door.

“I-- yes, of course,” you reply a little too hastily. “We should, you know, continue training…”

Zakk and Lleu share a look and Trahearne tilts his head, far too perceptive for their own good.

“If you’re all still up for it.”

* * *

Hours later, you’re lying flat on your back, panting heavily. Sweat glistens on your forehead, drips down your cheeks and lines already dampened hair. Trahearne had been called away by Gixx to speak about plans to retake Claw Island, leaving you with Zakk and Lleu, who look slightly less out of sorts than you do.

“You push yourself too hard, you know,” Zakk says in between breaths. He leans over and taps your knee playfully, to which you respond by kicking out half-heartedly.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply. “It’s part of my charm.”

Zakk laughs. “You? Charm? I didn’t realise you had any.”

“Hey!” You say, straining ever so slightly as you rise to a sitting position. You level Zakk with a glare. “You take that back! I have plenty of charm.”

“You have less charm than my right hand.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Don’t worry Isaye. Zakk’s just jealous,” Lleu pipes up, a small smile on his face at Zakk looks at him aghast.

“What could possibly make me jealous of this bookah?” Zakk says, eyes narrowing at Lleu as he speaks.

“Her charm?” Lleu half says, half asks, almost as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Her ability to get anyone on her side in spite of all her flaws?”

“Hey…” you say as your smile falters. “In spite of my flaws?”

“Everyone has flaws. You have some glaringly obvious ones,” Zakk interrupts.

“What is it, bully Isaye day? Did I miss that memo whilst I was out cold?”

Zakk laughs heartily and Lleu chuckles softly.

“Isn’t that everyday?” the former asks with a grin.

You groan and allow yourself to fall back to the ground, swinging one arm across to wipe the sweat from your forehead as you go.

“How’s Elain?” You ask after a minute or two of silence passes. You strain to look at Lleu from your position on the ground. Doing so allows you to catch sight of his frown and furrowed brows.

“She’s been sent to help gardeners in Nemeton Grove to protect the Revered Terebinth,” Lleu replies a few moments later.

“Sounds like a more difficult job than it should be…” you say softly, opting to sit up again. Your body protests a little more this time, the strain causing your torso to ache. “What’s the ‘Revered Terebinth’?”

Lleu hums - a response to your first statement - then begins to explain. “The Terebinth is held sacred by the sylvari. Years ago, a secondborn sacrificed her life to protect her friends, dying at the roots of the Terebinth. Ever since then the tree bears a powerful fruit that strengthens those who eat it.”

“I take it that means those Nightmare Courtiers are also  _ very _ interested in the Terebinth?” Zakk asks.

Lleu nods. “They have an outpost at Beldame’s Rise, north west of the Terebinth. Their forces there have grown quickly over the recent weeks and the gardeners at Nemeton Grove fear an attack is imminent. The Wardens have opted to help protect the tree, at least until the threat has passed.”

“So they didn’t send her alone?” You ask.

“No. But Elain has scouted the Courtier’s outpost and she has expressed a great deal of concern over being outnumbered.”

“Has she tried to request more Wardens join them at Nemeton Grove?”

“Yes, but the Warden’s forces are stretched thin as it is and protecting the Terebinth is not the highest priority on Niamh’s list.”

“And Niamh’s one of the firstborn?”

“Yes. Head of the Wardens.”

You nod, draping your arms over your knees and leaning forward to rest on them. Neither Sieran or Lleu spend much time talking about the Nightmare Court, but the expression they wore whenever they did was always a sour one. The one Lleu wears now seems pained, laced with worry.

“You could join her at the Terebinth,” you say after a few minutes. Lleu looks up at you, startled and curious. “Take a few Priory members - if it’s as sacred as you say, then there’s no doubt that the Priory would want to protect it and let it grow.”

“No, Isaye. We need to focus on retaking Claw Island. Gixx would never authorise such a mundane request at such a critical time.”

“He’d authorise it for me.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that on my behalf. Besides, we were going to fight Zhaitan together.”

“We will, Lleu. But Zhaitan isn’t at Claw Island. He’s hiding in Orr.” You reach an arm out to place a hand on Lleu’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I would love for you to be there with us when we retake Claw Island. But if you’re worrying about Elain, your head won’t be in the right place.”

“Isaye…”

“So I’ll talk to Gixx. I’ll get it authorised, then you can go help Elain protect something sacred to the both of you. When you’re done you can come back - don’t worry, we’ll save Zhaitan for your return.” You shoot him a smile.

“I still can’t ask you to do that.”

“Then don’t. I’ll do it anyway. Fighting for the good of Tyria doesn’t mean we have to give up the things, the  _ people _ , that are special to us.”

There’s a lull in the conversation after that. Lleu considers it, his eyes shining with beginnings of tears.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Absolutely,” you reply, a smile on your lips and tears glistening in your own eyes.

Lleu goes to speak, mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he settles on just smiling back at you.

“Thank you Isaye.”

Your smile widens. “Anything for a friend,” you say. Then you turn to Zakk. “Got anything you need to do, bookah?”

Zakk stares back at you, mouth pulled into a thin line, definitely not amused at you calling him a bookah. “Keep that attitude up and I’ll make sure something more important crops up.”

“Aww, Zakk. You know I think you’re the smartest bookah I’ve ever met.”

“That’s an extremely contradictory statement, Isaye.”

“I’ve been told I’m a very contradictory person,” you reply with a grin and a wink, earning a hearty chuckle from Lleu.

“Hmm, your track record would suggest such a personality. You say you want to retake Claw Island, but how can we be sure  _ you _ don’t have something more important to do?” Zakk grins slyly, waggling his eyebrows.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Just that you and the countess seemed  _ very _ close.”

You groan, throwing your arm out to the side in an attempt to strike out at Zakk. You miss you mark, Zakk easily rolling out of the way. “Don’t even start on that one.”

“Are you trying to imply you’re not close?”

“I honestly don’t know what we are. Countess Anise is… difficult to read and I’ve had a very stressful week.” You run a hand through your hair, ruffling it a little bit. A few strands fall back down onto your face.

“Bookah, it’s not that difficult to read  _ a kiss _ .”

You purse your lips. Zakk’s right -  _ by the six I’ll never admit that out loud _ . Or at least, you agree with him on this particular point. But there are so many thoughts running through your mind that you find it difficult to make sense of what you’re feeling, let alone make sense of what Anise might feel.

Your loss on Claw Island is still too fresh, the wound cutting deep across your heart. You’re angry too; at Zhaitan for stealing something precious from you, at yourself for not being  _ stronger _ , at Anise for dropping  _ that _ particular truth bomb on you. Then there’s a part of your brain, that small, lingering paranoia that you fostered during your time in the Ministry Guard, that has you wondering if Anise is just playing you.  _ Using _ you. Like so many others before her have done.

“It’s not that simple, Zakk,” you say eventually with a heavy sigh. You glance over at Zakk, a mixture of emotions threatening to spill over. “Just drop it. Please?”

Zakk looks like he’s about to say something more on the subject, but the look you shoot him - exasperated, brow furrowed, lips pursed - is fortunately enough to stop him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started off so well but I couldn't figure out how to end it, so I just picked a point and said 'here, here's good'. 
> 
> Side note! I didn't originally plan to have that whole mesmer bond shindig included between Anise and Isaye, but I thought it would be interesting to explore. Besides, they've already met, and what better time to introduce the mesmer bond than a near death experience?


	18. Here Comes this Rising Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> “Something like that,” you mutter. “A friend in Lion’s Arch told me I should see someone about it. Talk it out.”
> 
> “So what’s stopping you?” Anise asks, so quietly and patiently. Like a part of her doesn’t expect you to answer and has already made her peace with your silence. She raises a hand and cups your cheek, ever so gentle, and you lean into her touch subconsciously.
> 
> “The fate of Tyria? The threat of a dragon looming overhead?” You shoot her a small smile. Anise’s first response is to roll her eyes. A touch of fear.

The Order of Whispers is a little more difficult to convince. They aren't too fussed about working with the Priory or the Vigil, but they are concerned about just how overrun Claw Island is.

Apparently, it didn't take the risen that long to get comfortable on the island.  _ Bastards _ , you think bitterly.

Eventually, after two weeks of back and forth between Gixx and preceptor from the Order, the latter are willing to provide as much aid as possible. You idly wonder just how much aid that will amount to; the Order are spies, agents of reconnaissance and shadows, not really known for outright attacking their enemies. 

Then again, neither were the Ministry, and you know exactly how dangerous people like that can be.

You appreciate the help of course. You'll need as much as you can get in order to retake Claw Island, especially after hearing the Order's reconnaissance report. There are a lot more risen there now - waiting, the Order's scout said - no doubt preparing to attack further inland.

You can't let the risen reach Lion's Arch.

That fact only, you suspect, is why the Vigil and the Order of Whispers agreed to your pleas for help. If the risen take Lion's Arch, then all hope at defeating Zhaitan is lost. They could invade the far reaches of Tyria, from Divinity's Reach to the Black Citadel, and by the time anyone has a chance to realise what's going on, it would already be too late.

"Lost in thought, Isaye?" Trahearne asks, yellow eyes aglow with curiosity and a touch of concern. He matches your walk stride for stride. Although that isn't a difficult feat to accomplish at present; afterall, your wounds from the battle at the Durmand Priory still carry a constant ache.

"Something like that," you mumble.

The two of you are walking towards Fort Marringer on your way to attend a meeting between the Priory, the Vigil, and the Order of Whispers. One final meeting before you sail for Claw Island. The air is palpable with tension. It hangs thick and heavy like an invisible smog. The citizens of Lion's Arch glance to the skies warily, hurrying home as if fleeing an oncoming storm. Whether they are aware of what's going on or not, you're unsure, but they definitely know that  _ something _ is coming.

It's not just the people who radiate a nervous energy. As you draw nearer to your destination, your mind wanders all the more. So many questions brought to the surface, about  _ her _ and what happened when you chose to leave. What  _ they _ would have done, if anything.  _ What I could have done... _

You shake your head. Best not to fall down that particular path, lest you find yourself trapped in guilty thoughts forever. 

Trahearne tilts his head and watches you silently, a prompt to talk, if you so wish.

You offer him a slight smile, afraid that should you speak, your voice would betray how frail you feel both physically and mentally. Would Trahearne drag you away from this fight if he thought you weren't ready?

"We're almost there. I wonder how the orders are getting along," he says, content with your lack of any proper answer, and shoots you a wide smile of his own.

"If they're getting along," you reply, huffing out a laugh. "Ten silver says they're arguing right now."

Trahearne's eyes widen slightly, but his grin remains "Interesting. But I have no intention of accepting a losing bet."

"A shame," you say as your own smile grows, tension slowly easing from your muscles.

Fort Marriner stands high and proud above you now. A part of you - the historian side that the Priory has brought out in you mixed with a childlike wonder - is amazed by what the pirates of Lion's Arch created here. How they banded together against all odds and took a stand against Zhaitan long before they knew what the Elder Dragon truly was. Or how their union paved the way for such a great and powerful city, one that became the center of trade and commerce.

Your father used to tell you stories. He was always fond of Lion's Arch, afterall, he took your name from one of its founders. The story of Cobiah and Isaye Marriner fascinated your father - “a true ‘love conquers all’ story, and real to boot” he always used to say. If the opportunity had ever presented itself while he was still alive, he would have moved in a heartbeat. 

He had also mentioned a couple of distant relatives living here. Cousins, if you recall correctly.  _ Perhaps one day, when all this fighting is over, I'll come find them. _

You return your attention to the fort and what lies inside. Voices - raised and exasperated - can be heard from within. From where you're entering through the North gate, you can see large groups of people in the center. Each group stands divided, eagerly watching the argument unfold before them. 

The group to the south is the Priory. You know those cloths, leathers and steel armour anywhere. To the left of the Priory, you see soldiers stood to attention, adorning the signature black and white armour of the Vigil. That leaves the Order of Whispers, standing lazily to the right of the Priory. 

Through a small gap in the crowd you can barely make out Steward Gixx. Even as the majority of the crowd towers above him, he still manages to exude a commanding presence.

You're not sure who he's talking to. The other orders had never piqued your interest, during either your time at the Priory or with the Ministry. All you really know is that he's talking to a charr and a human.

_ That's where we need to be _ , you think as you gesture for Trahearne to follow you through the crowds. It takes more effort than you would like, the Vigil soldiers not eager to move out of your way, and some appear even less motivated to do so once they notice you adorning Priory armour.

"Wrong side, bookworm," one of the soldiers says, shoving you as you pass. Some of the surrounding soldiers laugh, but that only serves to get you all noticed by the figure heads arguing a few feet away.

The chart in Vigil armour growls in your general direction, an action that instantly silences the soldiers around you. If any of them weren't standing to attention before, they definitely are now.

The human - from the Order of Whispers, if you had to hazard a guess - looks like he's trying to hide back a smile. 

Then there's Gixx who looks at the soldiers with narrowed eyes. Clearly annoyed by the unwanted interruption. That is until his gaze falls on you, still trying to squeeze your way past the crowd, his features brightening.

When you finally manage to break free of the crowd, you greet Gixx with a smile and a nod.

"Very nice of you to join us, Isaye," Gixx says, offering you a smile and a curt handshake. The gesture is tense, his hand clasps too tightly around your own and you catch his smile waver for a fleeting moment. He's just as anxious as the rest of them, just as nervous as  _ you _ feel. "Trahearne," he says and turns to nod in the sylvari's direction.

"Yes, yes, very nice. Now, can we get back to the matter at hand?" The charr asks, looking somewhat bored with the whole ordeal.

"Almorra," the human man cautions with a sigh, as if he knows another inevitable argument is about to start.

"Am I not allowed to greet my people, General?" Gixx says.

"You can greet them after we've finished this meeting," the charr - Almorra - says with a grunt.

Gixx responds quickly, something about 'if you ever let this meeting finish'. You recognise the harsh, biting tone he's using, reserved for when he believes the conversation he's having is a complete waste of time.

You tune it out as he and Almorra start a heated argument with each other.

Almorra is… well, you don’t know what you expected. You hadn’t had much time to do any research on her being far too focused on regaining your own strength. You’ve heard the stories though. There were no end of hushed whispers in the Priory hallways once word got around that the Vigil would be joining you at Claw Island. Almorra Soulkeeper, soul survivor of her warband. She probably would have been more daunting, what with all the rumours floating round, if she wasn’t currently bickering with Gixx.

Then you turn your attention to the official from the Order of Whispers. A dark haired man, only an inch or two taller than yourself, who has been very quietly observing the whole ordeal unfold. Up until now, as he catches you staring.

He tilts his head to one side, curiosity piqued. You can't help but feel disturbed as he glances over you. A trained eye looking for potential weak points. It reminds you of the Shining Blade, always watching as you passed by regardless of whether you were wearing your armour or not. You have to force yourself not to bristle under the attention.

"Perhaps," the man says, redirecting his attention to Almorra and Gixx, "this meeting would end a lot quicker if we kept the bickering to a minimum?"

"We're not bickering," Almorra says instantly, turning to face the man.

"We're having an intellectual debate. Well, one of us is," Gixx chimes in, a grin on his face. Almorra snarls.

"I agree with..." you speak up, almost regretfully as you trail off. Thankfully, the man is quick to act, providing his own name and continuing before either Gixx or Almorra have a chance to round on you.

"Doern Velazquez, Preceptor of the Order of Whispers. Apologies, Magister, I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Isaye Caldoran," you reply. Then you gesture towards Trahearne who currently stands behind you, no doubt quietly assessing the situation at hand. "And this is my friend, Trahearne."

"It's good to say you again," Trahearne says, stepping forward and holding out his hand. Doern clasps it in his own, giving it a firm shake.

"Likewise."

"What did I say about greetings?" Almorra says, though you notice the way her features soften when she looks at Trahearne. "It's been a long time since I last saw you," she continues. 

_ This guy really does get around _ , you think, watching the whole thing unfold, aware of the hundreds of eyes currently trained on the five of you. 

Trahearne smiles at Almorra, but his eyes glance over the crowds. There's that same hint of nervousness there, but also something else. A touch of fear. It reminds you of how he looked in the Dream - eyes wide and disbelieving, afraid of carrying the hopes and dreams of thousands of people. He hides it well now, but you were there when his mother revealed his destiny. You know exactly how terrified he is of the onlooking crowd.

"Perhaps you could fill us in," you say, garnering the attention of everyone around you. "What plans have you already discussed?"

"You are filled in," Almorra says. Her blunt responses are a surprisingly welcome reprieve. Years spent in the Ministry has you so used to carefully choosing each and every word and not even the Priory could drill that out of you. Besides, there were still scholars in the Priory that would do the very same thing. It's nice to know where you stand with Almorra, even if that is on equal footing with everyone else.

Although that's not entirely true - you're fairly certain she likes you a little better than she likes Gixx.  _ If she even likes him _ .

"Well then... Let's make a start. Obviously we already know what the Durmand Priory is capable of--"

"Yeah, reading books," someone in the crowd says. You're not sure whether it came from a member of the Vigil or the Order of Whispers, but it's insulting all the same. 

A couple of your fellow Priory members seem to think so too. They start hurling abuse right back and a minute later once a third of the crowd has joined the action, you start to understand why Gixx, Almorra and Doern hadn't made it very far in the first place.

"Is now really the time for such petty and childish action?" You call out to the crowd, turning to face what you believe to be the rowdiest spot. "We face a dragon and it's army, yet here you are mocking each other. You can joke around and belittle each other all you like once this is over, but right now we need you focused. If you're too busy making fun of each other, how can I be sure you're ready to face the threat that lies ahead?"

Silence falls across the fort. You spot a couple of pirates, no doubt eavesdropping, waiting with bated breath.  _ How many more are listening in?  _ you wonder.

The seconds pass agonisingly slowly. Everyone looks at you with mixed expressions of anger, awe and surprise. Even Gixx, although you can see a touch of genuine pride shining through as well.

"Magister Caldoran is right. We face a threat far greater than ourselves, or our orders. If we cannot overcome our differences here and now then Zhaitan has already won," Trahearne says. He starts off a little shakily, struggling to find his voice as the crowd turns their attention to him, but you offer him a smile as a small token of encouragement. 

The small gesture is enough. His voice rises with every word until it becomes loud enough to echo around the fort.

"I believe that, with the orders united, we can do more than retake Claw Island. I believe we can reclaim the lost lands of Orr."

Murmurs start to rise through the crowd.

"Zhaitan thinks he has us beaten. But he is wrong. Claw Island was not our last stand, it was our first. When he struck out at Claw Island, he left a wound on  _ every _ order."

Trahearne's gaze meets that of someone else's in the crowd. You try to follow it, across to a group of Vigil soldiers, but past that you don't stand a chance at recognising who it was. It piques your interest though, the knowledge that someone from another order was  _ there _ that day and you didn't spot them.

_ If I had spotted them, would it have changed anything? Or would Sieran still have made the sacrifice she did that day? _

_ Of course she would have. _

"That was his first mistake. Until now, he has been a faceless enemy. But we know the truth. He hides behind his armies.  _ He is afraid _ of us, of what we can do together. He attacked Claw Island and when he realised that each of the orders had lost something precious to them on that day, he knew we would finally rise up to challenge him. If he wasn't afraid, Lion's Arch would already be in ruins. But no! He turned his attention to the orders instead!"

_ You are full of surprises Trahearne. _

You glance at Gixx, who's eyes have widened in surprise.  _ He didn't know. He reached out to the orders with a desperate plea and they didn't bother to inform him that Zhaitan had tried to wipe them out as well? Why? _

Almorra and Doern look just as surprised at Trahearne’s confession.  _ If we keep secrets from each other, how can we possibly fight together? _

“I know what you all think. What right does the Priory have to tell you what to do?” you jump in. “The truth is we have no right. You could all leave and we wouldn’t be able to stop you. But I don’t think you will. You’ve been hurt, like we have. Your home has been invaded. Your people - friends, family, anyone you hold dear - have been injured or killed. I think you  _ all _ want to bring them the justice they deserve. So hold back those biting taunts and join us in taking the fight to Zhaitan.”

The murmurs grow louder. 

You glance over at the group of Priory members first. Most of them are smiling or nodding their heads and some are outright grinning or cheering. You’re taken aback at the sight, with the knowledge that so many people have your back. You’ve never had that before.

The Vigil, though they take a little longer to warm to the idea, eventually start up a cheer of their own. The roar of the crowd is louder than that of the Priory’s, with so many more soldiers of the Vigil eager to follow you to Claw Island. 

You watch Trahearne eye the Vigil crowd, scanning for something, a face he finally finds and you manage to catch who he’s staring at this time.

A norn woman, standing tall above the roar of soldiers around her, a smile on her face. She offers Trahearne a nod before meeting your gaze. You think she mouths  _ well done _ , but you can’t be sure.

Finally, after another minute or two, the agents from the Order of Whispers join in. They’re more reserved than the Priory and Vigil, but you hear their rallying cries all the same.

“Now,” you say, turning back to Gixx, Almorra and Doern, letting the rallying cries die down on their own. “What do the Vigil and Order of Whispers have to offer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since the last chapter but I'm back at it! I'm trying to build up a buffer of chapters again as well so that I can go back to posting bi-weekly, but we'll see how that goes.


	19. The Eye of a Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...
> 
> "Wrong side, bookworm," one of the soldiers says, shoving you as you pass. Some of the surrounding soldiers laugh, but that only serves to get you all noticed by the figure heads arguing a few feet away.
> 
> The chart in Vigil armour growls in your general direction, an action that instantly silences the soldiers around you. If any of them weren't standing to attention before, they definitely are now.
> 
> The human - from the Order of Whispers, if you had to hazard a guess - looks like he's trying to hide back a smile.

Two hours after your meeting at Fort Marriner you find yourself on a boat, sailing across the ocean towards Claw Island. The sun sits high and central against a bright blue sky. Its rays bear down on you with a scorching intensity and what few clouds marr the skyline provide very little in the way of shade. Your sweat sticks to you and your steel armour feels like a magnet for the unwanted heat, the metal uncomfortably warm against any exposed bits of skin.

To say the waters lapping gently at your boat below are temping is an understatement.

A part of you feels like you should be enjoying it more. It's nice to be back under the warm sun again. As nice as the Priory is, you weren't built for those cold hallways and icy mountains.

But you look out across the water, watching as Claw Island creeps ever closer, and your stomach drops. The last time you were here, you lost everything.

It's hard not to see Sieran in it all. Like the ghost of her laughter on an otherwise silent ship. Or to feel the weight of her absence where she would have otherwise been stood by your side.

"Ready Cherry?" Her voice whispers with the breeze. 

You turn and see a soft smile on her face- pale and faded. Her eyes glow eerily. She reaches up to cup your face and you blink - the life-like image of a memory falls out of your grasp.

You gasp out the breath you didn't even realise you had been holding.

_ Focus, Isaye. You can do this. _

You force yourself to move from where you were standing leaning against one of the railings at the side of the boat. The first couple of steps are shaky, but once you find your momentum you start to pace up and down the boat.

_ Go over the facts. Ground yourself. _

The Lionguard lent you eleven ships, enough to carry every man and woman that signed up to help you retake Claw Island. A few captains and their crew have even agreed to help fight. Surprising for the pirates, but after a bit of thought it makes sense. Lion's Arch is their home and Claw Island is an extension of that. 

That left you with another six ships - - and another hundred and twenty or so people on your side.

As expected, Vigil and Priory members make up most of your numbers as far as the orders are concerned. Though you do have at least two ships worth of Order of Whispers agents, which is a lot more than you thought you would get. Overall, if the reports from the Order of Whispers are anything to go by, you have more than enough man power to overwhelm the risen currently residing on Claw Island.

You're concerned about potential reinforcements though. A memory of their ships flashes through your mind, an undeniable terror crawling under your skin as they rose from beneath the waves. You wouldn't even see their reinforcements coming.

There's the dragon too. Blightghast, one of the Lionguard had said. According to the Order of Whispers, they didn't see the dragon during their reconnaissance, but that doesn't mean that the bastard isn't nearby.

Blightghast is your main concern. These people, you have no doubt that they can fight risen, but how many of them have ever faced a dragon before? Even Almorra, who has been in the presence of an  _ elder dragon, _ has never fought against a creature so deadly.

_ We need to plan for Blightghast showing up, _ you think, raising your head to glance around the ship.

There, by the bow of the ship, is Gixx talking animatedly with a couple of magisters. You start to walk towards him, but only make it a few feet before you're interrupted.

"Magister Caldoran? I would like a word if you have a moment to spare," someone asks, standing off to your left.

"I'm actually rather--" you start, sparing a passing glance at the person who interrupted you, only to realise that it's the Vigil soldier Trahearne had been looking for in the crowd a few hours prior.

You get a better look at her now than you did back then. She's - well, describing her as tall doesn't quite hit the mark. Compared to all the norn you've seen or met, she towers above them. Dark red hair is pulled back into three tightly woven braids; a large braid flowing just past her shoulder blades and two smaller braids, one resting just past each shoulder. Her eyes are a dark brown. So dark in fact, that were the light not catching them you might have mistaken them for black.

What stands out the most about this mysterious norn woman is her tattoos. Partially hidden by her armour, the intricate designs spiral down her biceps, dark red ink a stark contrast to her pale skin. Another pattern - you can't make out if it's connected to the ones on her arms or not - craws up the right side of her neck, the tip of the design stopping just below her right eye.

"--busy..." your sentence trails off as you take in the sight before you. Stunning and terrifying all at once. You glance over at Gixx to see he's still in the middle of a conversation. "It can wait," you say with a sigh.

"You sure?" She asks as she tilts her head to one side.

"Yeah... though I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You already know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Sigrún. Warmaster of the Vigil," she replies, offering you a smile and her hand to shake. You clasp it, offering her a smile of your own.

"So, what was it you wanted to discuss?"

"How long have you known Trahearne?"

Your eyes narrow, suddenly suspicious of Sigrún's motives. She realises she's made some form of mistake and instantly raises her hands, palms facing outwards, in an attempt to pacify the situation.

"I'm just curious, that's all. I've been trying to get him to join up with the Vigil for years - in a more of a consultation role, of course - but he's always declined the offer. Yet here you are, convincing him to fight a horde of risen."

"Oh, I-- it wasnt really me who did that. His mother was the one who convinced him, I just happened to be there at the time," you reply. 

"His mother's been nudging him in the direction of his wyld hunt for years. Something changed. I think you played a bigger part than you realised."

"I was just there to provide a little bit of encouragement and support."

"Uh huh." Sigrún doesn't look convinced. Still, she lets the matter slide, albeit with a heavy sigh. "You never answered my question."

"Right. Since Claw Island."

Shock flashes across Sigrún's face. She stands a little straighter, coming to sudden realisation.

"I see. I'm surprised I never saw either of you."

"You were there?"

"Late to the party," is all she says in response. Her lips pull into a thin line, her eyes darken. 

There's a shadow hanging over her and you know without a doubt that she was the one Trahearne was talking about. Sigrún is the other order member who lost something on Claw Island. Being late to the fight would also explain why you didn't notice her in the first place.

Claw Island was absolute chaos when the fighting broke out. You barely remember  _ her  _ final moments, or how you even escaped. Not that you want to think about the former, anyway.

"We'll do right by them now, Magister," Sigrún says quietly. 

"How much has Trahearne told you?" You ask. There would be no other reason for Sigrún to hint that  _ you _ personally had lost someone unless Trahearne had mentioned  _ something _ to her. 

"Just that you lost someone close to you that day. He did so in an attempt to get me to convince General Soulkeeper to join the fray, as if I needed much convincing in the first place. His letter to me came through a day or two before your Steward sent one to the General."

"Funny how he keeps telling people about me," you mutter, glancing around the ship to try and spot Trahearne but to no avail.

"He's impressed by you. And he's worried," Sigrún replies with a lazy smile and a shrug. "Grief is wild, Magister. Leave it uncontrolled for too long and it will consume everything in its path before you even have the chance to realise something is wrong."

"What are you doing?” You snap. 

Sigrún's features soften. "Offering you advice."

"Well stop! Because I don't need it."

She sighs heavily then reaches out to place a hand on your shoulder. "There is a long path stretching out before you right now, Isaye," she says calmly. You note the deliberate avoidance of your title. She has no right to be so informal, she doesn't even know you, yet her words somehow hold more weight because of it. "It does not need to be a lonely one. Reach out, surround yourself with people who will willingly shoulder your burden. The wolf that hunts with its pack is stronger than the wolf that walks alone."

"Speaking from experience?"

There's a long pause. You refuse to look up. This woman  _ doesn't know you _ and you've had more than enough people just 'offering advice' as of late. 

You look up anyway, against your better judgement, and meet a pained expression.

"I almost lost myself in grief. I know what it's like to be told time and time again to deal with your problems instead of run from them. But it's easier, isn't it? Grief is... faceless. There's no enemy to defeat in combat."

"It would be a lot easier if there were," you say. 

Sigrún hums in agreement. She walks towards the side of the boat, rests her arms against the wood, gazing out across the ocean.

You join her, leaning your back against the wooden frame instead, and tilt your head back to look at the sky. The sun still blazes high up above, but a sickly green miasma is starting to stick in the air.

"Does it get easier?" You ask as your lips draw into a thin line.  _ We're almost there _ .

"Slowly," Sigrún says. "Agonisingly so, at times. But one day you'll look back at the path you've walked and be proud of how far you've come."

She turns her head to look at you, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Try not to worry too much about the battle ahead. We will be with you every step of the way and we will be ready for whatever lies in wait for us," she says, knocking her arm against your own.

"I'll try," you reply. "Thank you, Sigrún."

"Don't thank me yet," she replies swifty, winking at you. Then she turns, nods her head towards Gixx. "Looks like your Steward is free now."

You follow her gaze and spot Gixx, on his own at the bow of the ship, lost in thought.

"Right..." You shift on the spot, a little uncomfortable. "Um, be careful out there."

"You too."

You shoot her a smile, small and a little awkward, before making your way over to Gixx.

Gixx doesn't notice you until you're right in front of him. He almost jumps at your sudden presence but masks his surprise relatively well.

"Isaye! How're you holding up?" He asks, tilting his head to the side as he inspects you. Up and down - a full once over.

"Honestly? A little nervous," you say, crossing your arms over your chest and looking out across the sea. You can make out the silhouette of Claw Island, shrouded in that thick green miasma. The very same miasma that is starting to ooze around the boats as they draw nearer. It smells like rotting flesh, a strong and putrid scent. You can only imagine how unbearable it will be once you finally dock.

"Well, never thought I would see the day," he says, huffing out a small chuckle. "That feeling is no doubt shared by the rest of our companions."

Your gaze drifts upwards slightly, eyeing up the cloudy sky above Claw Island. 

"Do you think Blightghast will show up?" You ask.

Gixx hums for a second before he responds. "Undoubtedly. Once the risen's ground forces realise they can't overwhelm us."

"If he turns up, we need a plan of action."

"I agree."

"Anything you have in mind?"

A heavy sigh. Gixx's shoulders sag slightly and he quickly glances back at the rest of your forces sharing the ship.

"It's my first time fighting a dragon, Isaye. Even just a force of risen this large - I'm out of my depth."

The silence stretches between you. You're at a loss for words after Gixx's confession and he looks even smaller now than he usually does.

"What intel have we managed to gather about it?"

"Very little."

You groan, your hands clenching into tight fists as you do so. Your eyes narrow at the skies.  _ Bastard dragon _ .

"What about a small.. task force? Two dozen men, perhaps. They keep their attention on the skies and as soon as Blightghast makes his appearance, they prod at his defenses. If we can reclaim the trebuchet early on, before Blightghast arrives, you could turn a couple of them on the dragon as well."

A handful of members from each order would do the trick and as long as most of the trebuchets remain firing into the water, you should be able to cover any risen ship reinforcements. It would be a dangerous task, though. Anyone fighting against Blightghast would have to volunteer themselves for the job.

"I'll lead them," you say, face full of determination. "You, Trehearne, General Soulkeeper and Doern can focus on the ground forces, or any risen ships that make an appearance. I'll stick with anyone who volunteers to fight Blightghast."

"Sounds like a plan. Or, well, the start of one. Better agree it with the others though, hmm?"

"Of course. I'll speak to them now." As you go to move away, Gixx grabs your arm and gently tugs you back.

"Be careful, Magister. We've lost enough already."

A flash of a smile across your memory. A voice echoes in your head - not her voice, or yours, or that of the icy shadow ever looming - whispering something about a long forgotten number.  _ How many? How many? How many? _

_ No. Sieran will not be another number. Today... today I stop running. Today I start paying back all the lives I owe. _

"I will," you reply with a curt nod and a determined look in your eyes. As you turn, you know with certainty what will happen next.  _ No dragon will stop us. No dragon will stop me. _


End file.
